


The World Forgetting By The World Forgot

by bigmoneygator



Category: Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (2004), The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Crossover, M/M, Multi, References to Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-28
Updated: 2013-06-02
Packaged: 2017-12-13 06:56:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/821360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigmoneygator/pseuds/bigmoneygator
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Would you erase me?</p><p>An Eternal Sunshine AU in four parts in which Steve erases Tony from his memory, and Tony decides to do the same out of spite. Halfway through, he realizes he's made a huge mistake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. How Happy Is The Blameless Vestal's Lot

**Author's Note:**

> Any divergence from canon character traits were made in an attempt to keep the Joel/Clementine vibe without sacrificing the story or the characters themselves. Many thanks to Bryn and Toon for beta'ing. Tense changes within the story are deliberate; these are your clues as to when in the story the events are taking place. Loosely based on this fanvid: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4xJQjj7dwIc

Tony wakes up and immediately gags, stale plasticy taste in his mouth. He leans over, paws around for the wastebasket he keeps next to the bed for used tissues and discarded paper cups. He spits into it as the nausea crests and then fizzles out, gone as soon as it came. He flops back down into bed, rubbing uncomfortably at the shirt he was wearing. Why is he wearing a shirt? He never wears a shirt to bed. There was a reason, a plan behind the shirt. Something . . . but it fades away. His head hurts. 

He has the distinct impression that he was dreaming. Tony doesn’t often dream; or if he does, he doesn’t remember. Someone told him once that everyone dreams, but he can’t remember who. Small fragments of last night’s specters bubble up to the surface of his brain. Someone screaming, fighting, things being broken. “You are _fucking killing me_ ,” a tired sounding voice hisses in his head. 

It’s a reasonable thing for him to dream about, he supposes. He’s nearly forty, and his life is a string of failed relationships and inevitable letdowns. It sounds like something one of his many exes had said to him at the tail end of a fight, like something his father might have said when he was a teenager, snorting cocaine and getting into fistfights. But it weighs on him. It’s less a dream, and more a memory.

Tony wracks his brain, trying to dig up any more detail about his dreams. There’s a certain softness, a longing. As he thinks about the more pleasant feelings from his nightly reveries, he is struck suddenly with a strong desire to go to Montauk for the day, eat at the beach house restaurants, watch the waves. The thought of going makes him light up a little, like a child promised to be taken to the zoo. Then he realizes what an asinine idea going to Montauk in the middle of February in, and a flickering sense of dread replaces happiness in the pit of his stomach.

The longer Tony lays in bed, the worse he feels. He closes his eyes, pinches his nose. Something doesn’t feel right. He wiggles his toes, counts off each, inspects his hands and his fingers. His limbs appear to be in order. The taste of bile burns in the back of his throat. 

He gets up, swings his legs off the bed, digs his toes into the plush carpet. Everything is exactly the same, but something is eating at the back of his brain. Everything is the same, sure, but everything is _different_ at the same time. He stretches, cracks his back. He pads out of his room and into the bathroom.

It’s like someone played a practical joke on him. There are empty shelves in the medicine cabinet behind the mirror. Empty shelves that he was certain had been filled with various hair products and cholesterol medicine and razors and toothpaste only the day before. All of his things are crammed onto the top two shelves. He considers this for a long while, staring into the cabinet while he takes his morning piss and notes that there’s even somehow less toilet paper than he remembers. 

The kitchen is worse. Tony isn’t a particularly neat man, but he _is_ meticulous about certain things. He always leaves water and grounds in the coffee pot to make in the morning. He always leaves his cigarettes in the basket on the table with his keys and wallet, matchbook slid into the cellophane. He always leaves his briefcase on the same chair. His liquor bottles are always lined up neatly on the counter by height and volume left in the bottle. 

Everything is a mess. The filter for the coffee pot is hanging open, used grounds stinking up the kitchen like old piss. There’s a burnt on stain at the bottom of the pot from someone leaving the machine on for too long. His cigarettes are open, laid next to the empty ashtray he keeps next to the basket, the matchbook nowhere in sight. His briefcase is on the wrong chair. The liquor bottles are moved, out of order and definitely emptier than he remembered.

Tony’s cat howls at the back door, breaking his reverie. He opens the door, unnerved that it’s not locked. The cat slinks in, wet from rain and looking thoroughly pissed off. 

“Who let you out, Jarvis?” Tony asks, kneeling down to pet his closest friend. Jarvis is not an outdoor cat. He was declawed when Tony rescued him from the shelter. Sometimes he managed to slip out when Tony opened the door, but that hadn’t happened in a while. Jarvis looks thoroughly miffed and Tony feels like he’s done something terrible. He guiltily fills Jarvis’ bowl with wet canned food and refills his water bowl. 

Tony empties the coffee filter and rinses it in his sink. He debates calling Clint, to see if his friend had gone on some sort of bender and trashed Tony’s bastion of order. Clint could be a troublemaker like that, playing practical jokes and being a general shit stirrer. Tony shakes his head, makes a fresh pot of coffee. Clint is too proud of his accomplishments; he would have texted Tony by now, asking if he liked his new kitchen.

Tony changes into jeans and a scratchy sweater while his coffee brews. He checks his phone for new messages, but there are none, so he shoves it into his pocket. It looks cold outside; a grey and lifeless, typical mid-February type of day. Tony thinks again about buying that house in Malibu. He’s starting to get old, after all. The warmth might do him some good. Winters make Tony listless, make him lonely.

All of his mugs are mixed up. His favorite one is pushed all the way to the back, and he grumbles as he digs it out to pour his coffee into. He hates feeling things. Sometimes he wishes he was a cat. Or a robot. Maybe a robot cat. He chuckles at the idea as he sips at his coffee. He wishes bleakly that he had someone to express the sentiment to.

Tony hates being lonely, because he has a terrible habit of calling up his exes when that happens. Maybe he could call Pepper, ask her to take him back. She was sweet, and she was gorgeous, and she was crazy about him. _Was_ , of course, being the past tense. Tony is pretty sure that she’d rather spear him than speak to him, at that point.

He goes out to the living room, and the nagging suspicion that things aren’t right magnify in his gut. Tony is not sentimental. Tony doesn’t keep knickknacks and mementos. There are no snapshots of family and friends hung proudly in his home. He likes prints of oil paintings, black and white photographs of landscapes; frivolous, expensive things that serve no purpose except to enhance a space.

There is evidence, in the dust trails, of keepsakes and tchotchkes being kept on the endtables. Tony never dusts; one of his many bad habits, he supposes, but for something to have sat on his endtables for long enough to leave tiny imprints of circles, of long lines from picture frames . . . it would have had to sit there for a very long time. There have, to his knowledge, never been anything on his endtables other than the sleek silver lamps he uses to read the paper at night.

There are holes in the walls, holes from nails. There are scratches on the paint from frames swinging against them. Someone else might not have noticed them, but not Tony. Tony notices everything, and there are holes from pictures that never hung on his walls. There are sections of dust-free areas on his endtables, on his buffet server. His mother’s vase is missing. He shivers.

Tony used to do things like this, back when he was in his twenties and he did all sorts of drugs. He would go on benders and leave trails of destruction behind him. But he doesn’t do that anymore. Still, the feeling of so many things being so irreconcilably _wrong_ . . . It’s a familiar feeling, and Tony gets a hivey, itchy feeling under his skin. He feels like his feet are suddenly strapped to roller skates and they’re about to fly up from underneath him at any moment. 

He jams his feet into the nearest pair of sneakers, goes into the kitchen to get his keys and wallet. The itch starts to hurt as he pulls on his jacket, jams his hat down over his ears, and he thinks of all the things he might have done the night before.

_Forget about it_ , he thinks to himself as he checks the lock on the back door. _Forget about it, it’s nothing_.

He slams his front door with more force than probably necessary, head throbbing. He walks to the train station, hands stuck in his pockets. He could have taken the car, but the biting wind makes him feel more grounded. His teeth chatter as he waits for the train to Montauk, and he suddenly realizes he forgot his fucking cigarettes. _Damn._

~

Steve has finally managed to get out of bed for the first time in a week.

He marks it down as a small victory. He promised himself a long time ago that he would never touch any psychotropic drug again, but Bucky had been right when he made Steve keep the pills. Bucky is always right. Steve had taken two little Ativans when he got out of bed that morning, and now he feels, if not totally alright, a little less miserable.

Steve hasn’t turned on his phone in three days. He feels guilty for leaving Bucky in the dark, cutting him off, worrying and probably wondering if breaking down Steve’s door is worth it this time. But the incessant chirping, all those messages from Phil, asking if he was okay, did he need anything, is he sick . . . They were making Steve crazy. Every time the phone went off, he burst into hysterics. The more Phil wanted him to be okay, the less okay Steve felt. 

Phil is some sort of saint. He says all the right things, the kinds of things that Steve needs to hear when he’s freaking out, whether they’re simple and soothing things or words of courage and strength. Phil knows without asking that Steve likes soft-baked chocolate chip cookies and can’t stand the little baby corns they put in Chinese food. He kisses Steve the way Steve likes to be kissed. But all of that, every scrap and speck of adoration and attention, makes him feel hollow and used in the most bizarre way. Phil seems like a cheap echo, a copy of a copy of something Steve had lost in a way that makes him so anxious that he had a meltdown at work a week ago on the last day before he crawled into bed. Steve hasn’t had a panic attack at work in years.

Steve sits on the beach, digging the toes of his work boots into the sand. He sketches little doodles of monsters that hide under the waves and rescue drowning children in his sketchbook. He always feels at peace when he’s at the beach, and this time is no exception. It reminds him of when he was young, before his parents died, before he joined the army and went to Iraq. 

The military had been good for Steve at the time. He had always wanted to serve a purpose, to be a soldier for the greater good. He craved order, rules and regulations. But he did not come back the man he left as, and it seems now that the only good his time in the army did was help him compartmentalize his feelings into separate little boxes. Sometimes, one of the boxes exploded and he had a moment or five of sheer panic, of flashbacks of trauma and gore. He had always been sensitive, but after he had taken two bullets and gotten his discharge papers, it seemed like his natural vulnerability had ratcheted up until everything that happened to him grated and chafed, as if every nerve were raw and exposed.

There were days, upon Steve’s return, that he longed for someone to kiss the ugly scars on his shoulder, the marks on his arm from the bullets. As if the act itself would erase them from his past. Phil was the first person to do so, but even the thought makes Steve shiver, makes his stomach do flips. It seems to him contrite and hollow, much like Phil himself.

Part of Steve’s panic over Phil is undoubtedly because he doesn’t want to break things off with someone who obviously cares so much. The other part is because he is utterly terrified that if he leaves Phil, there will never be another person to care for him like that. Steve does not feel worthy of being loved, and he hasn’t since before he went overseas. Sometimes he wishes that he didn’t even have Bucky, his lifelong best friend, to make him feel guilty just for feeling so terrible.

Steve feels like he’s being unfair to Phil. It’s not _just_ Phil making him miserable. There are a myriad of reasons, and all of them seem like an unspecified anxiety disorder of some kind. There were important papers missing from his filing cabinet, sending Steve frantically searching until he found them in another room. He keeps misplacing things. It took him twenty minutes just to find the keys to his car that morning. He found a bottle of vodka in his freezer. Steve doesn’t even drink, let alone drink expensive imported vodka. The undeniable, creeping suspicion that he had been left out of a very large joke settled in at the base of his spine, curled up like a serpent to strike at his nagging consciousness, unprovoked and wild.

Steve is not alone on the beach that day, and it strikes him as odd that someone else would be out on Montauk in the middle of February. He even admits to himself that it’s not a very elegant plan. The other poor soul on the beach is a man in a woven beanie and a grey jacket. He kicks the sand at the breaker and stalks around impatiently, occasionally taking his hands out of his pockets to huff on them, trying to breathe some warmth into his fingers. 

The man reminds Steve of something, some long lost memory of a sticky summer night, leaping into waves. Steve frowns, searching for the details, but they’re long gone. He stares at the stranger. Steve is sitting too far away to see his face clearly, but just the sight of him twists Steve’s guts. 

The other beach goer is in the beach front diner an hour later, pouring something into his coffee under the table. He’s extremely handsome; threads of silver run through his tousled black hair. His goatee is trimmed neatly, and his eyes are whiskey colored and luminous. His face is open, honest looking. He notices Steve watching him. He winks as he takes a sip of his doctored coffee.

Steve feels mortified as his cheeks flare up red. He goes back to picking at the pancakes he ordered. He isn’t particularly hungry, but maybe if his stomach is full, his chest won’t feel so empty. He thinks bitterly that he needs to stop falling in love with every stranger that pays him the least bit of attention. When he looks up again, the handsome man is gone, replaced by a few bills and an empty coffee mug. 

It’s for the best, Steve thinks. He pulls out his sketchbook and does quick studies of his waitress, of the patrons sitting at the counter. He manages to swallow down three more bites of the pancakes before his stomach seizes up. He pays the waitress and decides to head home. His boss is extremely lenient with him, especially with Bucky pulling for him, but he’s missed a week. He has to go back tomorrow, pick up the slack he left behind, pretend everything is fine. He promised, and Steve Rogers does not break promises.

Steve doesn’t notice the same stranger waiting on the same platform until someone loudly asks him to put his cigarette out. Steve watches as he takes a steady drag, exhales the smoke, and then tosses the butt onto the tracks. The woman who asked him looks hideously angry, but the man just cocks a wicked grin.

“Apologies, doll,” he says to the woman.

“Ugh,” she huffs, moving down the platform towards Steve.

Steve adjusts the strap of his messenger bag and pretends that he wasn’t watching. 

When the train comes, Steve curls up in a window seat and immediately pulls out his sketchbook to work on a drawing he had started earlier in the day of a beautiful old house on the waterfront. He works on penciling in the salt grass in front of the house and the man walks through the compartment, whistling. He sits down in the seat behind Steve, and Steve hears the telltale noise of an iPhone text alert.

Steve is left in peace until after the conductor makes his rounds and punches tickets. As soon as that’s done, the handsome stranger gets up and parks himself next to Steve.

“Hey,” he says. “You were on the beach today.” He gestures down at Steve’s sketchbook. “That’s really great. Really captures the detail. That’s my favorite house on the point.”

If Steve were a normal, sociable person, he would have told the man how that house is his favorite too, and thank you for the compliment, weren’t you on the beach too? But since Steve is hounded by anxiety and lousy with worry, all that gets past his lips is, “Oh.”

The man laughs. “Strong, silent type, huh?” 

“Um,” Steve says.

“Hey, man, I didn’t mean to bother you.” The man stands up. “You’re busy, I’ll just . . . go back to my seat.” He returns to the row behind Steve.

Steve looks down at his sketch and suddenly feels like he shouldn’t finish it. The privacy of drawing is gone. It’s not a personal escape if someone else is there too. He half-heartedly goes in to add more detail to the lace curtains, but no sooner does the pencil touch the paper than does the man behind him stick his head up over the seat and say, “You know, I’m really just wondering what kind of lunatic would go out on the beach on a day like today.”

Steve jumps. He clears his throat, tries to get his bearings. “Well,” he says meekly. “You were on the beach today.”

“Exactly,” the man says, grinning. He has a smile that makes Steve think of sharks, of alligators, of terrible monsters that wait in the deep to snatch you and drag out down under the surface. It _should_ make Steve feel uncomfortable, scared. But instead it eases some of the tension he feels built up in his neck. “You’ve got to be nuts to be out in the cold like that.”

“Are you implying that you, yourself, are . . . nuts?” Steve asks.

“Well, technically, yes,” the man says. He comes around to plop back into the seat next to Steve. “But really, no.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Steve says.

“Well, the question of my sanity rests squarely on your answer,” the man says. “If you’re not nuts, then neither am I. But if you are, then, well. I must be too.”

Steve shakes his head. “I’m not nuts. I’m . . .” He shrugs. “Stir-crazy, I guess. Bored, possibly. But not nuts.”

“Then that settles it,” the man said with a firm nod. He holds out his hand. “I’m Tony. Tony Stark.”

“Steve Rogers.” Steve takes Tony’s hand and gives it a shake. Tony has a firm grip, almost painful. “Was this all a ploy to introduce yourself?”

Tony laughs. “I see I can’t pull the wool over your eyes.”

Steve smiles, a hesitant, shaky thing. Despite himself, he sort of likes Tony. 

“You look extremely familiar,” Tony says. “You don’t frequent engineering conferences, do you?”

“No,” Steve says, shaking his head. “I work at the boxing gym in Southampton.”

“Really? I live not two blocks from there,” Tony says. “I must have seen you around there.”

“Maybe,” Steve says with a shrug. He lives halfway between Southampton and Hampton Bays, by the good grace of the pithy inheritance from his deceased great uncle and government disability checks alone. His father’s pension checks had dried up a long time ago, but he was doing okay. For now. Tony strikes him as the kind of person who’s grown up in money, who hasn’t wanted for one thing in his life. He has a spoiled air about it; maybe it’s the name-brand winter jacket or the sparkling watch on his wrist. Perhaps it’s the artfully dishevelled hair or the crisp new jeans. Maybe it’s just his cloying sense of entitlement. Most strangers don’t expect time from other people, but Tony basically ran up to Steve and demanded it. 

Steve feels like maybe he should be worried that he gave in so easily to a complete stranger. Is he that weak, that vulnerable? What’s wrong with him? He’s going to get himself murdered one of these days, and all the army training in the world isn’t going to save him from the clutches of some well-dressed, cannibalistic sociopath-

“Hey,” Tony says, interrupting Steve’s thoughts. “You’re going to give yourself an aneurysm if you think that hard about anything.”

Steve’s brows furrow.

“Really,” Tony says, nodding gravely. “Your head is just going to explode in a shower of blood and bone fragment and everyone around you will shake their heads and say what a pity that Steve Rogers never stopped thinking.”

“Are you sure we’ve never met?” Steve asks, lips twisting into a half-frown, half-pout. “You were pretty spot on.”

Tony shrugs. “I’m just good at reading people.”

Steve doesn’t have anything to say. Tony levels a cool gaze at him, and it makes Steve feel extremely naked. 

“Wake me up when we’re at Southampton?” Tony asks. He settles back into his seat, leaning his head back.

“What makes you so sure that we’re going to the same place?”

“Just a lucky guess,” Tony says, smiling even though his eyes are closed. He crosses his arms and lets out a huff of breath. Steve realizes he mentioned where he worked and feels a little stupid.

Steve flips to a new page in his sketchbook and starts a drawing of the lighthouse on the point. He would draw Tony, but he always feels strange about drawing new people. Strangers were one thing, but the sudden intimacy of sitting next to each other on the train gives him pause. It would feel all wrong, to draw him now. He works on the drawing until he realizes that Tony’s not really sleeping, just fidgeting with his eyes closed. Tony huffs and rubs his face, opens his eyes. He looks at Steve’s drawing. 

“What’s an artist doing working at a boxing gym?” Tony asks.

“Oh. Well.” Steve considers this. He had gone to a two year college, gotten a degree in business because fine art seemed frivolous, but then he went to the army. He was just doing what he could to stay afloat. “I’m just making money. I guess.”

“Not much, I’d imagine.”

“Totally inappropriate,” Steve snaps.

“Hey, no disrespect meant,” Tony said, raising his hands. “I’m just saying that you have real talent.”

“Van Gogh had real talent,” Steve says dryly. 

Tony chuckles. “All right, all right. I’ll leave you alone.”

Steve sighs. He flips around in his pad, trying to find something half-finished to work on. He notices that there are a lot of torn out pages in the book. Huh. He didn’t usually do that, but he wouldn’t put it past himself. He got into funks and burned sketchbooks sometimes. He’s grateful to himself that he hadn’t wrecked this one. It’s his favorite.

The sky is beginning to darken when they pull into the station. It’s gotten colder, too. Tony all but vanishes as soon as they get off the train. Steve tries not to be too hurt by this. Tony’s just a stranger, after all. He doesn’t owe Steve anything, even if demanding his time and then disappearing was a little rude. Steve trudges down the stairs to his car, the familiar hollow ache settling once again in his chest. He’s being stupid, and he knows it. 

Steve is pulling out of the station when he sees Tony walking in the same direction he’s headed. He purses his lips. In an uncharacteristic display of extrovertedness, he pulls up alongside Tony and hits the button to make his passenger side window go down.

“Hey!” Steve calls. Tony stops, squints into the car. He smiles. “Do you want a ride?”

“Well,” Tony pauses, considers this for a moment. He makes a strange movement with his leg, like he’s trying to decide if he should take another step or turn to get into the car. Someone behind Steve honks and shouts. “Okay, yeah. Great,” Tony decides. 

Tony gets into the car and Steve takes off before the asshat behind them can abuse their horn again. 

Tony is quiet except to give Steve directions. When they pull into Tony’s driveway, Steve’s suspicions about Tony’s wealth are confirmed. A shiny silver Mercedes sits in the driveway. The house itself is huge, and there’s enough yard around it that it must have cost a fortune. Steve is still gaping at the fountain in the front yard when Tony says, “Thanks for the ride.”

“Of course,” Steve says. “It was cold out.”

Tony smiles that shark smile again. “You want to come in for a drink?”

“What?” Steve asks, taken aback.

“No funny business, I promise,” Tony says, dragging a finger over his chest. “Cross my heart.”

“I don’t drink,” Steve says in a small voice.

“Coffee then?” 

Steve is silent. He checks the time. He could, theoretically, go in and drink coffee with Tony and still be home in time to get a full eight hours of sleep before work. Then again, he might be better off just going home and forgetting about the whole thing, he would probably be tired all day tomorrow anyway-

“You’re doing that thing again,” Tony says. “Stop doing that thing.”

Steve laughs. “What do you suggest I do?”

“Don’t think so hard. Come in, have some coffee, meet my cat, and go home.”

“Cats don’t like me.”

“Cats don’t like _anybody_.”

Steve smiles. “All right.”

Steve follows Tony into the house. It strikes him as large and empty. It’s a raised ranch; the basement is dark. Everything is new, and at first glance it looks tidy, but that’s only because there’s not a lot of stuff. Tony obviously doesn’t dust, and the tile in the kitchen has evidence of wet grass sticking to shoes and muddy paw prints. The whole house smells like coffee, cigarettes, and that fake apple cinnamon air freshener smell.

“Go have a seat in the living room,” Tony says, waving his hand. 

Steve sits down on the plush couch. A rather large and fluffy grey cat stalks up to him. The cat lets Steve pet him and hops up into his lap to rub his face on Steve’s chest. Tony bustles around in the kitchen and Steve takes the opportunity to look around. Tony’s house has an air to it that Steve has come to associate with single middle-aged men. Everything is Spartan and utility. There aren’t pictures of happy smiling children and wedding photos and art projects hung on the fridge. The middle-aged bachelor pad, as a rule, is clean and emotionless. Hell, even the middle-aged bachelor tends to be clean and emotionless, in Steve’s limited experience. 

Bucky is going to absolutely murder him if he finds out Steve went home with another greying father figure. 

“How do you take your coffee?’ Tony calls.

“Black,” Steve replies, scratching under the cat’s chin.

“Really?” Tony pokes his head out of the kitchen. “No cream, no sugar?”

“Black,” Steve repeats, nodding.

“I can’t tempt you to put even a little whiskey in there?”

“No.” Steve shrugs. “Sorry.”

“Strong and silent, and now I find out you’re an incorruptible boy scout!” Tony smacks his forehead. “Geez.”

“Just an army captain, not a boy scout.”

“Aha! I knew there was something else.” Tony smiles and disappears back into the kitchen. He comes out with a mug of coffee in one hand and a glass of whiskey in the other. He puts the coffee down in front of Steve. “Cats hate you, eh?”

“Well, generally they do,” Steve says. “I don’t know why this handsome fellow’s taken a shine to me.”

“Jarvis likes handsome, troubled young men.”

“I’m troubled?”

Tony nods. “Oh yeah. I can always tell.” He sits down next to Steve, much closer than entirely necessary. “Jarvis and I have a type.” He reaches over and scratches Jarvis’ ears. “He hasn’t been wrong once.”

“Do I come off as that pathetic?”

“You come off like a space cadet,” Tony says, laughing. “You’re all snarled up in your head.”

“It’s that obvious,” Steve says, a little taken aback. He had hoped that he was doing a good job of pretending to be a regular person. 

“Maybe not to the general public, but to me . . .” Tony takes a sip of his whiskey, lets out the little huff Steve associates with people who drink hard liquor straight. “I told you, I’m good at reading people.”

Steve says nothing. He picks up his coffee and takes a sip. He’s surprised; most people who don’t drink their coffee black make it completely undrinkable in that state. It’s always bitter or weak; very rarely is it perfect. But Tony’s coffee is. It’s hot enough to burn Steve’s tongue, but he keeps drinking it.

Tony slings an arm around Steve’s shoulders. He’s shorter than Steve standing up, but sitting they’re the same height. Steve has a habit of sinking down into couches, anyway. Tony makes Steve feel extremely comfortable. 

“So, a soldier, huh?” Tony asks.

“Yes.”

“Still on active duty?”

Steve shakes his head. “No. I’m a wounded veteran.”

“Just checking,” Tony says, sipping his whiskey.

“Oh?”

“Well, I can’t have a boyfriend that has to run off the the Middle East for six months at a stretch, can I?”

Steve makes a “glurk” noise as he chokes on his coffee.

“Oh, wow, sorry,” Tony says, thumping Steve on the back. Steve coughs. “Didn’t mean to almost kill you.”

“It’s okay,” Steve wheezes. “Really.”

“It’s just that I get the distinct impression that I’ve met my designated life partner.” Tony eyes Steve over his glass of whiskey. “I don’t buy into that soulmates horseshit,   
but . . . I don’t know. You seem sort of special.”

“You’ve known me for a total of about three hours,” Steve says.

“So? Romeo and Juliet saw each other across a party.”

“And then they killed themselves.”

“You’re not a very good romantic, Steve.”

“I don’t want a Romeo and Juliet scenario,” Steve says. “I’d be much more happy with a Mister and Missus Cleaver situation.”

“Boring and predictable?”

“Stable and comforting.”

“A traditionalist!” Tony laughs. “I’m amazed you even like men.”

“I don’t know whether or not I should be offended.”

“Don’t, please.” Tony takes Steve’s hand. Tony’s hands are square and rough; steam shovel hands, with neatly trimmed nails but chewed cuticles. He put his glass down on the coffee table; there are no coasters, and that irks Steve. “No offense meant, whatsoever. Traditional is good.”

“Something to balance out your impertinence.”

“So there’s a sense of humor in there!” Tony laughs. “I knew it.”

Steve smiles. He sips his coffee and puts it on the table next to Tony’s glass. He leans into Tony, puts his head on his shoulder. Jarvis leaps off Steve’s knees. Tony tugs Steve’s hands into his lap, plays with his fingers, runs a fingernail over his perpetually swollen knuckles. Tony’s hands are beautiful; Steve’s are battered from boxing and picking up construction jobs. 

“This is nice,” Steve whispers.

Tony snorts. 

“What?”

“‘Nice’ is the worst adjective in the English language,” Tony says. “‘Nice’ is boring. It’s pedantic. Everyone wants ‘nice’.”

“There’s nothing wrong with nice,” Steve says.

“There is _everything_ wrong with nice.”

They sit in silence for a while. Steve tries to think of another adjective, but honestly, sitting here with Tony is simply nice. It’s calming and soothing. Knots that Steve hadn’t even been aware of untie themselves in his stomach. He is calmer than he’s been in a while. He has a feeling like a puzzle piece that’s been missing from his life is falling into place. He imagines Tony wiping the slate of his life, all the hurt and anxiety and pain, totally clean. Steve is aware of how unfair it is to ask of someone to do that for him, almost painfully so. But it doesn’t really seem to matter; not then, not there.

“You’re _thinking_ again,” Tony whispers. “None of that in my presence.” 

“You know, when brain activity ceases, the body dies.”

“No _overthinking_ in my presence, then,” Tony amends. 

Steve turns Tony’s watch so he can see the time. “I really should get going. I have work early tomorrow.”

“What a letdown,” Tony sighs. “If you must, you must.”

“I really must. They’ll kill me if I miss another day.”

“All right.”

Steve gets up and Tony follows. 

“Wait a sec,” Tony says. He runs into the kitchen and returns with a marker. “Hand,” he demands, holding out his own. Steve gives him his hand and Tony scribbles his phone number onto it. He puts a line through his 7’s and 0’s; very European. “I would like you to call me. The sooner the better. None of that ‘playing hard to get’ crap, all right? If you want to see me, you want to see me, and that’s that.”

“Okay,” Steve says weakly. He inspects the number. No one’s written a number on his hand since he was in middle school. 

Tony leans forward and kisses the corner of Steve’s mouth. “Now scram, before I change my mind about letting you leave.”

Steve grins stupidly and exits the front door. He drives a little recklessly back to his apartment. He makes it into the kitchen before he pulls his house phone out of the receiver and dials Tony’s number. He still doesn’t want to turn his cell phone on. He isn’t quite sure what he’s doing. This isn’t like him at all.

“Miss me?” Tony croons as soon as he picks up the phone.

“I do,” Steve says, smiling.

“Oh! You said ‘I do’!” Tony laughs. “I guess this means we’re married now.”

“I guess so,” Steve says. “Listen, I just wanted to say . . . I had a really nice time.”

“ _Nice_?” Tony asks sharply.

Steve takes a deep breath through his nose. “I had a great time. A fucking amazing time.”

“That’s better,” Tony says. “There’s nothing nice about me. But I’ll take ‘fucking amazing’. When are you free next?”

“I get out of work tomorrow at six.”

“Swing by the house. Dress warm. We’ll go up to the Charles River.”

“At this time of year?”

“It’ll be perfect, I promise.”

Steve wants to say to him not to make promises he can’t keep. Steve wants to tell him about all the snarled, tangled up things in his head, all the horrible, fucked up things that have happened to him. He wants to dive into the comfort of Tony’s strong hands. 

“Stop doing that thing,” Tony says sternly.

“I wasn’t,” Steve insists.

“Sure you weren’t.” Tony laughs, and Steve can see his eyes crinkling up. “Tomorrow. Six. Call me if you can’t make it back on your own.”

“Okay.”

“Hell, call me on your lunch break.”

“Okay.”

“They damn, Steve. Isn’t there another word in your vocabulary?”

“Maybe.”

“All right, Captain. Enough funny business. Get some sleep.”

“Good night,” Steve says.

“Don’t let the bedbugs bite,” Tony says. The line goes dead and Steve returns the phone to its cradle.

He gets the distinct feeling that something wonderful has just happened to him.

~

Tony pounded on the steering wheel of his car, howling wordlessly.

How had this happened?

How had he let Steve slip through his fingers like that?

Tony was acutely aware of what a fucking lunatic he looked like. He had scared the clerk at the gas station half the death, a drowned rat in a designer suit, waving money around and demanding cigarettes. He could barely light them, but he smoked the entire pack in his car that night, parked by the Charles River.

Nothing had ever hurt like this. 

Nothing had ever cut so deep, lashed into him right where it stung, twisted a knife so neatly. Every part of him ached for Steve to come back.

But this one was the final fight. Steve wouldn’t come back this time. Rhodey had seen him at the gym, already hanging off some guy even older than Tony. Steve was acting like a spoiled little brat, and that was not like Steve. He always left the theatrics and drama to Tony. But there he was, torturing Tony, dangling him on a spit.

Tony put his face in his hands and let out a strangled cry.

He wished, deep down to the pit of his heart, the very core of his being that he had never met Steve Rogers, and that none of this had ever happened.


	2. The World Forgetting By The World Forgot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He’s moving on,” Clint said. “Maybe you should too.”
> 
> “I can’t, I can’t move on without at least getting to talk to him, at least trying to explain . . .”
> 
> “You two were terrible together,” Natasha said.
> 
> Tony sucked in a breath. Leave it to Tasha to cut right to the quick. “We love each other,” he insisted, but his voice had a hint of doubt.
> 
> “You were slowly torturing each other to death,” Natasha said. “That's not love."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've seen Eternal Sunshine, you'll notice a rather large change in this chapter. In an effort to keep the narrative from being too confusing, I've moved some things around; the story is still told in a "non-linear" form, but I've kept it more or less in order to keep things from getting garbled. This is the set up chapter, all talking and not a lot of ~feelings~. I'm afraid it might be boring and short in comparison to the others. I know I said this would be up next week, but I underestimated my insomnia. No beta for this chapter.

Steve leaned over the counter, wiping up rings from sweating paper cups and stray drops of smoothie with his wet rag. Bucky walked by with two girls on his tail. From the snatches of conversation Steve heard, Bucky was showing them around, trying to convince them to join their cardio-kickboxing class. It really wasn’t that kind of gym, but Fury was desperate to make more money; hence, cardio-kickboxing and Pink Gloves and the smoothie bar. Steve _hated_ the smoothie bar. It made a huge mess, and that meant more work for Steve. 

A handsome, well-dressed man walked up to the bar, mouth twisted into a tense smile. He had sunglasses on, and one hand was shoved into his pocket. He didn’t really look like he was here for the gym.

“Hi, there,” Steve said, trying to sound polite. He sounded flat, bored. “Can I help you with something, sir?”

“Excuse me?” the man said.

“Is there anything I can help you with?” Steve asked, trying to enunciate carefully. What was this guy’s deal?

“Hey, babe,” someone said. Steve turned and there was Phil with a coffee from Starbucks. 

“Phil,” Steve sighed. He leaned over, pecked Phil on the mouth quickly. “Thank you so much. You wouldn’t believe the day I’m having.”

The well-dressed man cleared his throat.

Steve looked back over. “Sorry. Is there anything I can help you with?” he repeated.

“Is this a joke?” the man asked.

“I’m sorry?” Steve’s eyebrows shot up.

The man stood there and gaped for a moment before he walked away.

Steve looked at Phil. “That was weird,” he said.

“He was just caught off guard by your good looks,” Phil said with a smile.

“Flatterer,” Steve laughed. “What brings you in?”

“I was in the neighborhood.”

“No you weren’t.”

“No,” Phil admitted with a smile. “I wasn’t. But you sounded down on the phone last night. I figured a surprise visit wouldn’t hurt.”

“No, not really,” Steve said. “Thank you for thinking of me.”

“Of course,” Phil said. He leaned forward, planted a kiss on Steve’s cheek. “Just something sweet to get you through your blues.”

Steve froze. Someone used to say that to him. Who was it? It wasn’t a Phil thing. Did his mom ever say it to him? It certainly wasn’t his father. He looks at Phil, trying hard to think of who used to tell him that. Who used to give him something small to make him feel better? 

“Steve?” Phil asked. “Everything okay?”

“What? Oh. Yeah, of course.”

“Okay. I’ll call you later?”

“Yeah,” Steve said.

Phil knew that Steve wasn’t all right. Steve knew that. He tried to ignore the buzzing of his phone in his pocket. Phil had left him three texts about Steve being “sunshine on a cloudy day” and asking if he was feeling all right. It made Steve crazy. Everything Phil said seemed like something someone else had said already, like he had heard it in a movie once. It made him feel cagey, anxious.

If Bucky had been around the juice bar instead of spotting the guys lifting weights, maybe Steve wouldn’t have blown up like he did. One of the female MMA fighters who always gave Steve a hard time was being extra mean to him that day. She actually went around behind the counter to bump Steve out of the way to add the “right” protein powder to her shake, and then she counted out exact change, checking it three times before she slid it over.

Steve slammed the drawer shut hard and handed the girl her receipt.

She rolled her eyes at him. “There’s no need for all the _attitude_ ,” she snapped as she snatched the receipt and sauntered away.

Steve still might have been fine, if the blender hadn’t gotten stuck. Sometimes the industrial blenders got stuck on the bases and you had to jiggle them free. But it wasn’t coming lose. Steve tugged and jimmied and finally he got so frustrated that he just punched it.

And broke it.

And slid to the floor in a puddle of melted frozen yogurt and hot tears.

Bucky was there in a second, of course. 

“Hey,” Bucky said. “Calm down, man. It’s just an anxiety attack, right? Just breathe.”

“I have to go home,” Steve said. He didn’t particularly mean his apartment, but where else would he go? 

“Not until you calm down. But it’s okay. I’ll tell Fury you’re leaving, all right?”

It took Steve twenty minutes to calm down enough to leave the gym, fifteen more to remember how to operate a car. By the time he got home he was so exhausted that he crawled into bed and pulled the covers up over his head. He did not emerge from his cocoon of blankets for an entire week.

~

Tony had never felt like this before in his life. It was like someone had ripped out his lungs and was screaming at him to breathe, like they had taken his legs and told him to walk. Missing Steve took that much out of him. It had been two days since he had tried to win Steve back with a surprise visit to the gym and failed spectacularly. Steve had the nerve to kiss someone else in front of him, pretend he didn’t know him from Adam. It was humiliating, not to mention insulting. He didn’t want to go home, so he was hitting up his friends one by one. Rhodey had already kicked him out for being a nuisance.

He stalked around Clint and Natasha’s living room, occasionally throwing his hands up and proclaiming, “Fuck!” loud enough for the neighbors to hear. They were used to Tony’s theatrics by this point; Clint was quietly folding laundry as he sat on the couch, and Natasha was smoking cigarettes as she balanced the checkbook in the kitchen. They were both waiting for him to stop pacing and sit down; that was the clue that he was ready to talk.

But Tony didn’t stop. He kept up his gait at a steady clip for nearly an hour, his outbursts making Clint jump every time. Natasha finally came into the living room, arms crossed, Virginia Slim dangling between her lips. She looked a little murderous.

“Tony,” she said, her voice soothing but firm. “You’re going to wear a hole in my carpet if you don’t sit down.”

Tony’s steps faltered. Tasha took a deep drag of her cigarette, staring at him coolly. Her gaze was always unnerving. She had a way of looking at you that made Tony feel like she was trying to figure out the cleanest way to skin you. But today, she looked at Tony with just a hint of pity, of understanding, and it was enough to make him want to rip his own skin off. He made a strangled cry.

“Sit,” she said, pointing with her cigarette to the piano bench. Tony did as he was told. She perched on the arm of the couch next to Clint and stubbed her cigarette out in a crystal ashtray. “You realize that this is complete insanity, don’t you?”

“Is it?” Tony asked. He put his face in his hands.

Natasha regarded him warily. Emotionally compromised people were prone to lashing out, and Tony was prone to lashing out on a good day. He looked a mess. His hair was sticking up on one side. He hadn’t shaved in days, and there were puffy purple bags under his eyes. His button down was crooked; he had missed a buttonhole and the whole thing was done up one off. Tony could certainly be dramatic at times, but this was something different.

“Tony,” Natasha said. She watched as Clint folded a pair of socks and tossed them back in the basket. “You walked around the living room for an hour. You smell like a distillery. Have you even been home at all the past few days?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, I had to feed Jarvis,” Tony snorted. “And I changed.”

“Quite haphazardly, if I do say,” Natasha said. She nudged Clint’s knee with her foot. 

“She’s right, Tony,” Clint said. He didn’t particularly want to get involved with Tony’s messes. He had a habit of dragging other people into them, making _his_ problems everyone’s problems. “This is totally unhealthy. You can’t act like this.”

“I _don’t_ act like this!” Tony insisted.

“What are you acting like right now?” Clint asked.

Tony chewed on the cuticle of his right thumb. “I’m only acting like this because he didn’t even acknowledge my existence. He acted like he didn’t even know me!”

“He’s _moving_ on,” Clint said. “Maybe you should too.”

“I can’t, I can’t move on without at least getting to talk to him, at least trying to explain . . .”

“You two were terrible together,” Natasha said.

Tony sucked in a breath. Leave it to Tasha to cut right to the quick. 

“We love each other,” Tony insisted, but his voice had a hint of doubt.

“You were slowly torturing each other to death,” Natasha said. “That's not love. You took turns ripping each other to shreds. Your reaction is only another clue that it was an unhealthy relationship. Remember the time you two were arguing over the phone and you crashed your car?”

“Or the time Steve smashed your mother’s vase?” Clint added.

“Lest we forget the screaming matches over Steve’s birthday cake,” Natasha said.

“What about the time you trashed his apartment?” Clint said.

“He _landed in the hospital_ over you,” Natasha said. “Remember that.”

Tony had been actively ignoring them. He stood up, paced some more. “Maybe if I could just talk to Bucky, ask him to talk to Steve for me . . .”

Clint sighed. “You didn’t listen to a word we just said.”

Natasha looked at Clint. “We should tell him,” she said quietly.

Tony stopped dead, stared at Clint and Natasha. “Tell me what?”

“Tasha,” Clint said threateningly. 

“Clint, he’s a mess,” Natasha said. “Look at him.”

“The letter said specifically-” Clint began, but Tony cut him off.

“What letter? What’s going on?”

Clint glared at Natasha. “It’s just going to make it worse.”

“Tony is not one of Mama Clint’s baby chicks,” Natasha snapped. “You don’t need to take care of him.”

“Don’t drag our shit into this,” Clint said, his voice gaining a decibel.

“Who’s dragging _what_ into this?” Natasha said, her voice low and icy. She never yelled, bit if she started speaking in Russian, even Tony would bail. “Grow a pair, Clint, for fuck’s sake.”

Clint got up and dumped the laundry onto Natasha’s lap and tossed the basket onto the floor. “Fine! If you want to be the big bad bitch in charge of my life, do your own damn laundry!” he snapped. He stomped off, muttering curses.

Natasha calmly picked a sock off her lap and dropped it to the floor. “Tony,” she said, closing her eyes. She rubbed her forehead. “I don’t think that you should have to see this to move on. God knows I know what dysfunctional relationships are. But you’re a grown man. And you should know the truth.”

“What is it?” Tony asked, almost terrified of the answer.

Natasha stood up and stepped over the pile of laundry now sitting on the floor. She grabbed a pile of opened mail off the piano and sifted through it. She pulled out a slim yellow envelope out of the bunch.

“What is this?” Tony asked quietly.

“It came in the mail two days ago,” she said. “I wanted to tell you, but the note insists on secrecy.”

“Give me that,” Tony said, snatching the envelope out of Natasha’s hands.

Tony pulled a postcard out of the envelope. It looked like it had come from a doctor’s office, the sort of thing a dentist might send out to remind you to come in for your yearly cleaning. The card was the same shade of yellow as the envelope. There were blanks left in between the type where someone had filled in the pertinent details in blue ink with steady, blocky printing.

“Dear Mister & Mrs Barton,” the card read. “Steve Rogers has had Tony Stark erased from his/her memory. Please do not mention him/her/them to Steve Rogers ever again. Please do not disclose this information to the subject of erasure. Regards, Lacuna Industries.”

Tony studied the card intently, and then stared at Natasha. “Is this a joke?” he demanded. “Is this some sort of a joke?”

“We called the place,” Natasha said, shaking her head. “It’s not a joke.”

Tony flipped the card over. It depicted a calm lake with trees and a blue sky. The phone number and address of the company or business or doctor’s office or whatever was printed neatly in the middle of the sky. Lacuna Industries.

“He . . . had me _erased_?” Tony asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Tony,” Natasha said clearly and firmly. “He wasn’t happy. _You_ weren’t happy. Please, let it go. Let _him_ go.”

Tony looked back at the card. “I have to go,” he said.

“Go?” Natasha raised one eyebrow. “Go where?”

“Go here.”

She sighed. “Tony, you’re prone to rash decisions.”

“Erasing me from his memory wasn’t a rash decision?” Tony snarled.

She threw her hands up. “I’m not responsible for this. I don’t even know where he got the idea. If you want to go, then go.”

~

Lacuna Industries looked a lot like any other doctor’s office, with a waiting room and a receptionist, complete with a scratched coffee table strewn with out of date periodicals. The only real difference was that the people in the waiting room were _much_ more pathetic than at a normal doctor’s office. There was a doughy old woman crying into a handkerchief in the corner. She had a collar with a bell on it in her lap, and a black trash bag overflowing with papers and food bowls and pictures. A couple with matching ashen faces held hands on the lumpy couch. A young man stepped out of the back with a smile on his face, but it looked hollow. Everything was sort of sad and gloomy.

There was a pretty young woman at the receptionist’s desk. Her brown-blonde hair was loose and flowing around her shoulders. She looked very pleasant; probably the most pleasant thing in the room. She had a phone cradled to her ear against her shoulder.

“I’m sorry Miss Johnson, but we just can’t do the procedure more than three times a year,” the receptionist said in an apologetic, but firm voice. “I understand that. We have a multitude of therapists we could refer you to. Of course, Miss Johnson. Of course. I’ll email it out to you, all right? Don’t hesitate to call. Buh bye now.” She hung up the phone and looked at Tony, her smile bright. “Can I help you, sir?”

“You’re damn right,” Tony said. He stepped up and shoved the card Natasha had given him under her nose. “What the fuck is this?”

“Oh,” she said. She sounded very sorry. “You weren’t supposed to see this. I’m assuming you’re Mister Stark?”

"Yes, I am,” he sneered. “Can you explain this to me?”

“Well, sir, I’m very sorry,” she said, “but I’m not allowed to divest information concerning the procedure or patients. I can try and fit you in to see the doctor next week, and he’d be happy to explain-”

“Fuck that,” Tony snapped. The old woman in the corner shot him a withering glance. “I want to speak to him now.”

“Sir, please calm down,” the receptionist said, her eyes narrowing. She had dealt with people like this before, clearly. But she had never dealt with Tony Stark.

Tony walked into the back of the clinic, checking on doors for a nameplate. The receptionist chased after him. “Sir, please,” she said. “I can always make an appointment for you, this is _ridiculous_ . . .”

Tony found a door that had a name with an MD at the end of it and opened it up.

A huge mountain of a man sat behind a huge wooden desk. His blonde hair was tied back into a ponytail, and a pair of rimless reading glasses perched on his nose. He looked up, a little startled at the intrusion.

“Doctor Blake, I’m so sorry,” the receptionist said. “I told him we could make an appointment but he just barged in-”

“It’s quite alright, Miss Foster,” Doctor Blake said, folding his hands nearly on his desk. He had a hint of a smile on his face.

“But the other patients-”

“Can wait,” Doctor Blake said firmly. “I can spare a moment to speak to this gentleman.” He looked like a very pleasant, understanding guy. “Please, have a seat, Mister . . . ?”

“Stark,” Tony said, flopping into one of the metal folding chairs in front of the doctor’s desk. “Tony Stark.”

“Mister Stark.” Doctor Blake looked at the receptionist. “Really, it’s fine, Miss Foster. Go man the desk.”

Miss Foster made a pinched face and disappeared, closing the door behind her.

“Now, Mister Stark,” Doctor Blake said. “What seems to be the problem?” Tony tossed the card onto the desk. Blake picked it up and frowned. “You weren’t supposed to see this.”

“That’s what your, uh, secretary said to me,” Tony said, rubbing his face. 

“I can understand your distress,” Blake said. He spread his hands on the surface of his desk, over the piles of paper. “It’s a difficult thing to come to terms with, having been erased from a loved one’s memory.”

“So it’s legit? This isn’t some huge joke and Rhodey isn’t about to pop out of your coat closet and set off firecrackers and make me feel like an idiot?” Tony cleared his throat. “More of an idiot, anyway.”

Blake chuckled sadly. “No, I’m sorry. This is the real deal.”

“Why did he do it?”

“I am not at liberty to discuss cases. Doctor-patient confidentiality, HIPAA . . . you know how it is.” Tony didn’t say anything, his mouth twisting into a frown. “I can see you’re not going to give this up.”

“No.”

“Sufficed to say that Mister Rogers was . . . not happy.” Blake sighed. “This is mostly unprecedented, we don’t usually get someone storming in like this. But you could always get the procedure done as well.”

Tony looked at Blake, incredulous. “I could get it?”

“Well, there’s no reason why not. As long as you have an intact cerebral cortex and legal capacity to give consent, we can do it.”

“What is it? I mean, fuck the semantics, I’m an engineer. I want facts.”

“We use targeted mini seizures that destroy part of the brain to erase memories. We make a map of the emotional responses in your mind and then go in and get rid of them with an induced electrical impulse.”

“Is the damage lasting?”

“No more than a heavy night of drinking.”

“How is it done? Is it painful?”

“No, it’s not painful. I prescribe you a sedative that you take the night of the procedure. We go into your house or apartment or what have you, and we do the procedure while you’re asleep.”

“When’s your next opening?”

Doctor Blake smiled. “See Miss Foster on your way out. She can give you the specifics. We’ll try and squeeze you in.”

“You’re a standup guy, Doc.”

“And you get on people’s nerves very easily.”

“It’s a gift.”

Doctor Blake smiled. “Do not barge into my office again, Mister Stark.”

 

Miss Foster was polite, though a bit strained, when she penciled Tony into the appointment book for a procedure in four days. 

“You have to come back for your neural mapping before the procedure,” she explained. She handed Tony a large manila envelope. “That’s the appointment we just made, but the procedure will happen on the same day. There are specific instructions in here, but the general guideline is to get everything out of your house that has anything to do with the subject being erased.”

“ _Everything_?” Tony asked, incredulous.

“Everything,” Miss Foster said, nodding. “Don’t worry too much about big things. It’s small things, things you associate with the subject. It’s all in the packet, I promise. If you have any questions after hours, Doctor Blake’s work cell is listed.”

“Thank you,” Tony said.

“Mm hm,” Miss Foster said. The phone rang. She picked it up with a cheerful, “Lacuna, how can I help you?”

Tony left, clutching the envelope to his chest.

 

Tony didn’t realize how much of the stuff in his house was due to Steve until after he had cleared it all out. After his neural mapping session, he came back to a home that was barren and alien. He had gotten rid of the cheap plastic snow globes he and Steve had started collecting on their first trip together. Gone were the happy pictures of the two of them, smiling up out of the frames he had kept on his endtables. He had trashed the paintings Steve made for him, leaving holes in the walls from the nails he pried out with bare fingers. There wasn’t one crummy faded shirt of Steve’s left in the bedroom. All of Steve’s razors and hair product, his toothbrush and fruity shampoo, were gone. 

Tony clutched the little prescription bag in his hand. The van had already been parked outside of his house when he got there. Dr Banner, Blake’s second in command, and his tech were in there. Tony made another round of the house, checking for any last scrap of Steve still lingering in corners. 

He should have been sad, upset. But he was fuming. Blake and Banner had made a tape of Tony talking about Steve, to help with the neural mapping. The more Tony talked about it, the more bitter he got over the whole situation.

Tony changed into a pair of sweats and a t-shirt. He was normally a boxers only type of guy, but there was a note in the pamphlet to be at least somewhat decent. He took the pill bottle out of the bag, shook it. One measly pill.

That was okay. It was fine. He swallowed it down with a mouthful of vodka.

Tony crawled into bed.

_This is the last time I’ll ever have to think of Steve_ , he thought. 

He was happier than he thought he would be.

~

_Am I dreaming?_

Tony figured he had to be, because everything looked familiar.

He was in Lacuna’s waiting room with three trash bags of things he had pulled from his house. Steve things. He felt conspicuous and guilty. Who has _three_ bags filled with the detritus of a failed relationship?

“Mister Stark?” Miss Foster said. Tony looked up. “Doctor Blake is ready for you.”

Yes, this was definitely a dream. This was from earlier. He had done all this before. Doctor Banner and his tech were going backwards. Earliest memory to the oldest. Doctor Blake mentioned that as they were hooking up electrodes and a helmet that looked more like a colander than a piece of scientific equipment to Tony’s head. 

Doctor Banner pawed through the first bag. “Now, Mister Stark,” Banner said. “I’m going to put an item in front of you, and I’d like you to react to it.”

Banner withdrew a snow globe.

“Oh, this is the third one we got,” Tony said. “We picked it up at a-”

“The results are clearer if they’re nonverbal responses,” Banner said. “Feel free to pick things up, touch them. But no words.”

Tony held the globe in one hand, shook it. It was from Maine. There were little lobsters dancing around a snowman. He imagined Steve going through the same thing with all of the stuff Tony had left at _his_ place.

“Oh, excellent!” Blake said, pointing to the digital readout of Tony’s brain. “Look at that light up!”

“Let’s keep going,” Banner said.

They went through all of the things one by one. They started to blur together in the dream. _No_ , Tony thought. _This is a memory_.

The mug Steve had made during his brief flirtation with pottery class melted into the rock people dressed like the two of them that Clint had given them which melted into a collection of Steve’s DVD collection of remastered black and white classics. Everything got fuzzy around the edges. Tony lost track of what he was supposed to be looking at, supposed to be feeling.

“Letters,” Banner said as he pulled a wad of them out of the bottom of a bag. “These always get a great neural response.” He looked at Tony. “I’m going to read them aloud, if that’s all right?”

“Well . . .” Tony began. Tony and Steve were huge fans of writing to each other. They had left countless little notes in each other’s pockets. Tony thought again of Steve, of Doctor Banner reading all the things Tony had written to him.

“It makes for the clearest mapping,” Blake assured him.

Tony nodded.

“‘Tony’,” Banner began, “‘This is the second of such letters, and I hope it will be the last. You are a toxic person, and you’re killing me. I wish I had the words to tell you how badly this hurts, how I wish things were different. I wish I had more to say to you, but this is it. Really. Try to go live a normal life. I love you but you’re bad for me. Steve.’” Banner read them with no life at all. It made the words sound worse.

It hadn’t been the last. Steve hadn’t even been able to give it to Tony. It was dated a year ago, and Tony found it tucked into the pocket of a pair of Steve’s jeans while he was cleaning out all the things to bring to Lacuna.

Snatches of the letters came through as Banner read them, even as the scene itself distorted and bent, fuzzy around the edges.

“ . . . ‘you are the love of my life’ . . . ‘please don’t ever talk about leaving me’ . . . ‘hope this brightens your day’ . . . ‘a monster’ . . . ‘bad for me, bad for yourself’ . . . ‘you are fucking killing me’ . . .”

The memory seemed to fold in on itself before it disappears.

Tony was left with a neat blank spot where there was pain before.

He really liked the feeling.

~

Someone was banging on Steve’s door. It was probably Phil, but it might have been Bucky. All the lights were turned off. No one could know for certain if Steve was there or not, even if his car was parked in the drive.

“Steve?” they demanded. Definitely Phil. “Steve, please open the door.”

Steve pulled his covers up over his head, feeling sick to his stomach. 

When the banging died down, he slept and he dreamed of Montauk, of someone holding his hand while they leapt into the waves, of melting ice cream in stale cones. The dreams were so vivid, like he had done it all before. 

“Meet me in Montauk,” he whispered to someone, someone holding his hand, face buried in his hair.

He didn’t remember the dreams when he awoke, but he had the distinct feeling that there was someplace he had to be. He threw the covers off of himself and stared down at his feet. Montauk. He had to go to Montauk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HUGE canonical divergence in regard to Thor/Dr Blake. Writing his dialogue in the typical Thor style just wouldn't fit into the story, so I changed it. I made some tweaks along the way as to who would be the Doctor. Originally it was Fury but that just didn't fit. Reminder that there was no beta for this chapter so if you catch anything, PLEASE point it out to me.


	3. Eternal Sunshine Of The Spotless Mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Steve, they’re trying to erase you,” Tony said, pulling himself to his feet.
> 
> “What are you talking about?” 
> 
> “There are people, in my house, right now. Trying to get rid if you.”
> 
> “But we’re hiking,” Steve said, confused.
> 
> “We’re not hiking, this is a memory,” Tony said. “I wanted to have you erased, but not anymore.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Assume, for argument's sake, that there are a lot more memories that are erased than I mentioned specifically. It was long enough without going into every single little memory Tony (presumably) had of Steve. Thanks to Rin for the readthrough, my mom for accurate 80's clothing styling, and to everyone for the continued readership. I'm polishing up the final chapter as we speak so it should be up tomorrow (!!). THERE'S EVEN EXTRAS LEFT OVER. Gosh. Like I mentioned, this chapter is LONG. Very, very long. You've been warned.

The night is shining and sparkling, a thousand stars sprinkled in the sky. The moon is huge and full, hanging low over the bridge, where cars race by on the freeway. The Charles River is frozen completely solid, but that doesn’t stop Steve from clutching onto Tony’s arm for dear life. Tony is patient, laughing and assuring him that the ice can hold their weight. 

“It’s no worse than Montauk,” Tony laughs. 

“You’re sure I’m not about to plummet to an untimely death?” Steve asks timidly as he sets a cautious foot down onto the ice.

“Look at me in my eyeballs, Steve,” Tony says in a voice too serious to be anything but silly. Steve looks up. Despite the voice, Tony looks very thoughtful. “Do you trust me?”

Steve chews his lower lip. “Yes.”

“Good.” Tony tugs him forward and he slips a little as he gains his balance. “See? Still alive.”

“That was rude,” Steve says.

“Spoilsport,” Tony says. “Come on.”

“Tony, don’t!” Steve says, but Tony is already running and skidding on the ice. It’s a totally inappropriate thing for a man his age to do, but he’s laughing so hard. His joy is infectious. Steve smiles as Tony runs faster, but on the second skid, he falls right on his hip.

“Ow!” Tony yelps.

Steve runs over, his own feet nearly slipping from underneath him. “Tony, are you okay?” he asks as he slides to stop next to Tony.

“Oh, that’ll bruise,” Tony says. “Ow.”

“Are you okay?” Steve repeats.

“Fine,” Tony replies. Steve offers him an arm to pull himself up with, but Tony pulls him down instead. Steve lands on Tony’s chest with a grunt. Tony is laughing, raucous and unabashed.

“So not funny,” Steve says.

“It’s hysterical,” Tony says. He rubs his gloved hands on Steve’s stubbled cheeks. “It was worth it. You look incredibly cute when you’re mad.”

“You’re infuriating!” 

“I know.”

Steve pushes himself off Tony, lays down on the ice to look at the stars. Tony twines his fingers with Steve’s.

“Do you know any constellations?” Steve asks.

“A few. Um . . .” Tony points with his free hand. “There’s the big dipper.”

“Everyone knows the big dipper.”

“Okay, sassy. There’s scorpio.”

“You have no idea what you’re pointing at, do you?” Steve chuckles.

“You caught me. I’m all style, no substance. Baffle them with bullshit, or whatever the saying is.” Tony tugs Steve closer. “Can you do better?”

Steve studies the sky. “There’s Orion.” He points, then drags his finger down. “And that reddish star is Betelgeuse.”

“Are you making that last one up?”

“Cross my heart,” Steve says softly. 

They lay on the ice until Steve’s back is numb. Tony presses his thumb down into the heel of Steve’s hand.

“You ever feel like everything is right where it’s supposed to be?” Tony whispers.

“Not very often,” Steve admits.

“You have to admit.” Tony leans up on his elbows to look down at Steve. “This is pretty perfect.”

Steve smiles. “It’s pretty great,” he says. “I . . . I guess I’ve been feeling kind of shitty lately.”

“I can tell,” Tony says, laying back down.

“I’ve been trying to find the courage to break it off with someone.”

“Oh,” Tony sighs. “It just figures. I meet my perfect guy and he’s seeing someone.”

“It’s much less than that.”

“Hence why you’re lying on a frozen river at a totally unseemly hour with a man you met at a beach?”

“More or less.” Steve scoots closer to Tony, lays his head on his chest. “He left me with a bad taste in my mouth.”

“Tell him to eat more pineapples.”

“Filthy!”

“I’m kidding. Go on.”

“I just didn’t . . . It didn’t feel right. He said and did all the right things. But it felt . . .”

“Like the wrong shirt in the right color?”

“That’s very apt,” Steve says. “Perfect color. But it just fit all wrong.”

Tony wraps his arms around Steve. “What about me?”

“Perfect shirt. Exactly the right color.”

“Great.” Steve feels Tony’s breath in his hair when he talks. “That’s what I wanted to hear.”

They’re silent again, listening to the cars. Steve feels like he has known Tony his whole life, like they had been together forever and found each other again after a brief   
parting. There’s a certain lightness in his chest, a pleasant buzz in his brain. Tony makes him feel hopeful, and he hasn’t felt like that in a long time.

“Tony?” Steve says in a small voice. Tony loves the way his name sounds on Steve’s lips, like they were made to form the syllables that made him up.

“Yes?”

“I’m getting that feeling.”

“Which one?”

“The one where everything is right where it’s supposed to be.”

They kiss under the stars, lips cold. Tony tastes like cigarettes and coffee. Steve feels, deep down in his bones, like he is finally home.

~

_This is the last time I saw you._

Tony stumbled into his house, nearly fell down the stairs. He was so drunk that he could smell it on himself, smell the brandy leaking out of his pores, the harsh, nail-polish remover tang of vodka on his tongue. Steve sat on the couch, a plush plaid blanket tucked around him, book in hand. Tony was too drunk to feel anything but invincible, and it made him belligerent. Steve was wearing that hurt, judgmental look he reserved only for Tony at his drunkest. It made Tony want to punch a wall.

Tony flopped down on the couch, limbs askew. 

“I sorta . . . tapped your car. With mine,” Tony said. “On the way in.”

Steve snorted. “Great. Fucking amazing.”

“Shit, Steve,” Tony snapped. “It’s not like I fucking _killed_ someone.”

Steve put the book on the coffee table. “That’s not the point,” he said. “That’s not even remotely the point.”

“Then what is, O Great and Wise Den Mother.”

Steve let the sting roll off him. “What if you had crashed while you were driving? What if you had gotten killed? What if you _had_ killed someone?”

“Oh, kitten,” Tony said. “You’re just mad because I had all the fun without you.”

Steve’s face darkened with rage. “One of us has to go to work in the morning, Tony. _One_ of us doesn’t have an unending bank account because their daddy left them a trust fund.”

“So now we’re jealous?”

Steve slammed his hand down on the arm of the couch. “That’s not what I meant!”

“Green looks hideous on you, Captain.”

“Tony, put yourself in my shoes. You go out all the time. You come back slobbering drunk. I know you wave your money around and you expect people’s pants to drop. I have no idea if you’re out fucking people all night.”

Tony sat up. “You think I _fucked_ someone tonight?”

“No, I’m _assuming_ you fucked someone tonight because that’s how you get people to like you, isn’t it?”

“Fuck you,” Tony said, standing up. “I can’t believe we’re having this fucking argument two years into our relationship.”

“You can’t even deny it!” Steve said. “You can’t even tell me to my face that you _didn’t_ fuck someone tonight, because that’s what you _do_! You go to these fancy parties and you do who knows what with other bored rich fucks!”

“You’re acting like a brat,” Tony said. “Just because you don’t like being fun doesn’t mean you should shit all over mine.”

“Tony, you are a fucking alcoholic!” Steve screamed. He stood up. Tony knew he had fucked up now. Steve was huge, much bigger than him. If he started swinging punches, Tony would be dead. He never did, of course, but the fear was always there. “It’s way past due that someone ‘shit on your fun’! You’re going to kill yourself! What am I supposed to do without you? If you died like that what would I _do_?”

“You sure didn’t give a shit about me when _you_ tried to off yourself, did you?” 

Tony knew that it was the wrong thing to say. He knew it was the wrong thing to say even as he said it, but he couldn’t stop himself. Even though it was a memory, and it had already happened, he wished he could take it back. Steve’s face seemed to shatter. Tony wanted to snatch the words out of the air and stuff them back into his throat. 

“Fuck you,” Steve said. He pushed past Tony, grabbed his keys off the table.

“Steve, come on,” Tony said.

“Get the fuck out of my way!” Steve said. The scene was flickering. Steve was in the kitchen, getting his wallet, he was in the bedroom gathering up his things. Tony kept trying to stop him, but everywhere he went in the house, Steve was somewhere else.

Steve bumped into the buffet on his way out, and Tony’s mother’s vase crashed to the floor and broke. Steve didn’t even look upset about it, just stuck his feet into his shoes and left out the front door with a garbage bag full of clothes.

“Steve, what the fuck are you doing?” Tony hollered, chasing him down the stairs.

“I’m leaving you!” Steve said, tossing his clothes into the backseat of his car. “I can’t take this anymore! You are fucking _killing_ me!”

Steve got in his car and managed to get out of the driveway by driving on Tony’s lawn. It was lucky there wasn’t any snow. 

“I knew this was it!” Tony screamed after Steve. The sight of him driving out of the driveway and down the street looped again and again. “This was fucking it, wasn’t it? You never ran. I was the one who took off. You always chased me, but I wasn’t about to give you the satisfaction.”

Tony realized on the fourth or fifth loop that Steve had been crying, looking in the rearview.

“ _You erased me_!” Tony screamed. “Tit for tat, all right, you little shit? It’ll be like none of this ever happened! The perfect ending to this piece of shit story!”

The scene fizzled out of existence. Another memory gone.

~

“I put it on auto,” Bruce said, clicking a few buttons. “The first two went really well. He had a good map.”

“That’s good,” Phil said. “He has a pretty big booze collection.”

“We can’t crack into it,” Bruce said. Phil shot him a look. “Not until Jane gets here.”

“Are you two really dating?” Phil asked. 

“Yeah,” Bruce said with a shrug. “Why?”

“She hates me,” Phil said, inspecting a bottle of cologne.

“She doesn’t hate you.” Bruce stood up, stretched. “You just have an attitude with her.”

“She has one with me!” Phil insisted.

“You come off kind of creepy sometimes,” Bruce said. “I mean. Aren’t you currently dating a patient?”

Phil shrugged. “It was pure coincidence,” he said. “I happened to run into him where he worked. We hit it off.”

Bruce double checked a piece of paperwork. “Oh, man, that’s gross. It’s this guy’s boyfriend, isn’t it?”

“Clearly not anymore.”

The doorbell rang. “There’s Jane.” Bruce gave Phil a meaningful look. “Try and be nice, okay? She’ll be nice if you are.”

“Fine,” Phil said.

They went out into the living room. Bruce went down the stairs to let Jane in. As he opened the door, a large grey cat streaked out from under the couch and darted into the night. Jane watched him run.

“Well, he certainly didn’t want to stay here,” she said.

“I hope he’s an outdoor cat,” Bruce said.

“We can only hope.” Jane leaned up and kissed Bruce. “How’s the erasing going?”

“Smooth,” Bruce answered. They went up the stairs.

“Hi, Jane,” Phil said.

“Hey,” she said perfunctorily, her face pinched. “This guy got any good booze?”

“Yeah, we checked,” Phil said. “Expensive stuff.”

“Great.” Jane went into the kitchen, dumped her bag on a chair. She accidentally knocked a briefcase to the floor and she picked it up and put it back on a different chair. She went to inspect the bottles of liquor sitting on the counter and picked up a bottle of Maker’s Mark. She whistled. “Shots, anybody?”

~

The little memories flickered in and out of existence quickly.

The last few months of Tony and Steve’s relationship were a mess. Tony should have seen the end coming, honestly. All they did was fight. Tony said something hideous. Steve would look hurt. Steve’s pouting would make Tony angier. Even the memory of their last Christmas was terrible; just reliving it was making Tony feel itchy.  
Rhodey had invited them over to eat on Christmas Day. Since Tony had trashed their Christmas Tree, there were no gifts to be opened that morning. Rhodey had asked Bucky to come, too, to try and diffuse some of the ill will between them. But it didn’t work. Tony and Steve didn’t say one word to each other the entire time. When they got back to Tony’s, Steve went home without saying goodbye.

Grey. End of memory.

Tony was throwing the Christmas tree off the deck. Steve was crying. Tony had stepped on the presents. It was three days to Christmas. 

More grey. Gone.

It was back to the small annoyances, the tiny things that kept them at each other’s throats. Steve never changed the roll of toilet paper. Tony never used coasters at Steve’s. Steve forgot to feed the cat. Tony didn’t eat leftovers and let food go to waste. They cycled through Tony’s mind, back to front.   
It was after Thanksgiving. Steve had drank a glass of wine; big as he was, with no alcohol tolerance at all, it was enough to get him tipsy and handsy, pawing at the fly of Tony’s jeans. But still, the sex was downright ugly. Tony gritted his teeth and closed his eyes through it. Steve wasn’t really enjoying himself, either. 

Tony was grateful for that particular memory to end.

Steve was brushing his teeth. Tony was in the shower, but he could hear Steve tapping the toothbrush on the edge of the sink, clearing his throat before he rinsed his mouth out with Scope. Tony was about to leave for a three day conference in San Francisco. Steve had to go to work. Tony remembered this conference; he had slept with a redheaded intern that reminded him of Pepper there. Steve didn’t find out, but he felt terrible about it.

“You can stay here,” Tony said, “if you’d like.”

There was a pause as Steve spit the mouthwash into the sink. “I might. I have to feed Jarvis anyway.”

“I would really like to come home to you,” Tony said.

Steve stuck his head in the shower. “Was that something nice I just heard come out of your mouth?”

“Oh shut up.”

Steve laughed and kissed him. Tony closed his eyes, grabbed for Steve, but he was gone. He was in the bathroom alone.

Gone. Steve was . . . gone.

The scene changed again, more abrupt this time. 

They were on their last road trip, down to Virginia Beach. It was a treat, a special gift from Tony. It was the tail end of the last wave of softness, of sweetness, that their relationship had been through. Maybe it was a last ditch effort on Tony’s part. He could tell, in his heart, that this was probably the last time they wouldn’t be fighting. Their relationship was tenuous at best. It wasn’t the first, or even the second, but maybe the third or fourth time that they had patched things up after an enormous fight. It wouldn’t last. It couldn’t.

They were in the car. They had just gotten past an hour’s worth of traffic, and finally they were cruising up the coast, windows down, blasting AC/DC. Steve had driven the first two hours, but it was Tony’s turn now. 

“I really like the globe we got this time,” Steve said, putting his feet on the dash.

“Get your honking sledge feet off my car,” Tony said, though not unkindly.

Steve laughed, but he didn’t move his feet.

“I like it too,” Tony admitted. “Is it your turn to keep it?”

“No, it’s yours. I got the one from Quebec,” Steve said. He reached out, grabbed Tony’s hand. “This was a really great trip.”

“Yeah,” Tony said, nodding. He looked over. The afternoon sun was glinting off of Steve’s hair, off of his sunglasses. He hadn’t bothered shaving all week, and he was scruffy and sexy. He had on that _smile_ , the private one he only had for Tony. Steve didn’t give that smile away to anyone else. Not even Bucky. It was all for Tony.   
“It was really nice to get away.”

They held hands for a while, but after that, they were singing along to the radio, screeching as Tony floored it up the interstate. Tony didn’t notice that Steve was gone until he pulled over for gas.

More memories flipped through. The weekend they spent almost entirely out on Tony’s porch, grilling and reading and sunning themselves. The day they called out of work and laid under the blankets of Steve’s bed, eating Poptarts right out of the box and whispering to each other. 

“You’re my sunshine on a cloudy day,” Tony said, rubbing his nose on Steve’s. 

“Tony, stop,” he laughed.

“You are, you’re my sunshine,” Tony laughed.

And it was gone.

More little things. Tony was amazed at how much of his relationship with Steve was just . . . little things. The way Steve rubbed Tony’s goatee. The way he never forgot what kind of coffee Tony bought from the grocery store. The small ways Steve took care of him. The time they spent together was, to be honest, a lot of Tony trying to take care of Steve. A lot of Steve’s anxiety attacks and flashbacks and nightmares. But, when it was laid out for him like this, it was much, _much_ more of Steve taking care of Tony. 

Tony had always been an overgrown child. He was spoiled, flighty, and prone to running away. Steve never ran away when they fought. He waited it out. He was strong and patient and kind. When Tony bolted, Steve would trudge along after him, ready to work their problems out. He was the strong one. Broken he might be, he had been the rock. Tony was the one who drove a wedge into the cracks in Steve’s armor, pried them apart, like a child ripping the legs off of insects. It was shameful.  
Tony started, just a tiny bit, to feel guilty over erasing Steve.

Steve had just gotten his stitches out. He was laying in the tub, staring up at the ceiling, looking like a kicked dog. Tony came in with a mug of poorly made tea and a copy of _The Great Gatsby_. 

“Hi, babe,” Tony said, kicking the door closed.

“Please tell me you’re not about to use the toilet,” Steve said, looking horrified.

“God, no,” Tony said. “You think I would spend quality toilet time reading _Fitzgerald_?”

“I don’t even have the energy to yell at you for besmirching the house of Gatsby,” Steve said.

“The tea is for you. Something sweet to get you through your blues,” Tony said. He held the mug out. Steve took it. “Gatsby is also for you.”

“My hands are all wet,” Steve said, sitting up so he could sip at the tea.

“No worries. Your heroic boyfriend is here to save the day.” Tony sat down, leaning against the tub. “You have a bunch of pages dogeared, but can I just start from the beginning?”

“Okay,” Steve said.

Tony read for a while, even as the words started to disappear off the page, as his voice seemed to echo in on itself, but Steve just didn’t cheer up. Finally, he stood up and took the mug from Steve’s hands.

“What are you doing?” Steve asked. Tony put the mug and the book on the sink, and simply flopped into the tub fully clothed. A wave of water flooded the bathroom and Steve laughed. “You’re crazy!” he laughed.

“You wouldn’t cheer up!” Tony said, kissing Steve’s neck. “You gave me no other choice!” He nipped at Steve’s collarbone. “But you’re happy now, right?”

“Of course, you crazy, wonderful man,” Steve laughed, tangling his fingers in Tony’s hair. “I love you, Mister Stark.”

“And I love you, Captain Rogers.”

“If we got married, would I be Captain Stark?”

“The Captain and Mister Rogers-Stark.” Tony kissed Steve. “I like it. We sound like we belong on the Love Boat.”

“We do not,” Steve said, laughing. “You only wish we did.”

They kissed again.

“Love you forever, Steve,” Tony sighed. “Until the sky falls down.”

“Love you more,” Steve said. “Love you always, Tony, always.”

Tony fell into the water. Steve wasn’t there. He fell through the bottom of the tub, right into his bed.

Steve was crying. It was what had woken Tony up. Steve didn’t cry in his sleep, even when he was having nightmares. When the nightmares came, it was twitching and   
yelling. This was different. Tony reached out, pulled Steve to him.

“Babe,” Tony whispered, voice husky with sleep. “Babe, why are you crying?”

“Tony,” Steve said. His voice was small and broken. 

Tony wrapped his arms around Steve, buried his nose in his hair. “What’s wrong, Steve?”

“I’m a wreck,” Steve said. “I’m a wreck and you deserve better.”

Tony leaned down, kissed the tears from Steve’s face. “No. Absolutely not. If anything, _you_ deserve better.”

“I thought I would be better by now,” Steve sobbed. “I thought I would be okay. I thought being happy with you would be enough, but it’s not and that’s not fair, it’s not fair to you.”

“You are a _good person_ Steve,” Tony said. “And I love you. It doesn’t matter to me that you’re . . . you’re . . .”

“Broken?”

“That you hit a snag. That you have to go to outpatient. That I have to keep an eye on you. It doesn’t matter.” Steve buried his face in Tony’s chest and Tony ran a hand through his hair. “I just wonder . . . if you wouldn’t be better without me.”

“Don’t you dare,” Steve said. He pressed his lips to Tony’s fiercely, hungrily. “Don’t you _dare_ talk about leaving me. I need you.”

“Okay.” Tony kissed Steve again. “Okay. I’m here. I’m right here, until the minute you stop wanting me around.”

“Never,” Steve breathed.

Tony picked up Steve’s arm, kissed the bandages. Steve was lucky, really, that Tony could afford to take off so much time from work to take care of him. That Tony could pay for the medical bills. But he didn’t do it because he _had_ to. He did it because he _wanted_ to. He loved Steve, fiercely and protectively, he loved Steve so much it hurt, made his bones ache. Tony didn’t believe in soulmates, but Steve just continuing to be there, to be _his_ , made him rethink his theory.  
They made love that night, slowly, carefully. Tony pressed his lips to Steve’s fingertips as Steve sighed his name. God, he loved to hear Steve say his name. 

“I’m yours,” Tony said. “I love you.”

“Tony,” Steve said. “Don’t ever leave me.”

“Never,” Tony sighed. “Never, ever . . .”

And then.

Steve was gone.

“No,” Tony said, clutching at the sheets. “No, no! Let me keep this one.” He was crawling through a tangle of sheets, under his blanket. His bed seemed never ending. “Let me keep this one! I want this one, I don’t want this one to go!”

He tumbled off the edge of his bed into nothingness.

~

Phil checked his phone again.

“Guys, I really have to go check on Steve,” he said.

“Oh, come on,” Bruce said, taking a sip of brandy. “He’s probably fine.”

“He’s not picking up the phone,” Phil said, shaking his head. “I just want to go make sure he’s okay.”

“Go,” Jane said. “It’ll be alright. The erasing is on auto.”

Bruce pursed his lips. “All right. Go. But if anything goes wrong, you’re catching the flak.”

“Thanks,” Phil said, tucking his phone into his pocket. “I’ll just take the van. Jane can drive you back, right?”

“Of course,” Jane said.

“Great. See you guys later.”

Phil left. Jane smiled at Bruce. “Big house all to ourselves, huh?”

“You’re terrible,” Bruce laughed.

~

This is the one Tony didn’t want to relive.

He knew what it was because he could smell it before it focused, even in the memory. Stale smell like industrial bleach and sick people, plastic tubing and dying flowers. Steve had a room to himself. They wouldn’t let Tony in until Steve woke up. He had been sitting in a waiting room with blood all over his clothes for nearly six hours. Clint had brought him clothes to change into, but he was so worried he would miss Steve waking up that he wouldn’t change until Clint swore on his life that he would grab him from the bathroom if the nurse came out looking for him. Clint had brought him a plain shirt and a pair of jeans. His bloody shoes couldn’t be helped.

“Natasha is at your place,” Clint said, sitting down with Tony while they waited. “She’s . . . cleaning up.”

Tony put his head in his hands. “God. This is so fucked up.”

Tony had found Steve that afternoon, when he came home from work. Of course, it was the one day he actually _had_ to go into the office for a meeting. Tony didn’t even know where Steve had gotten the straight razor blades. Did anyone even _sell them_ anymore? It was irrelevant now, it was done. Tony waited. Clint watched. 

When the nurse came in to get him, the walls seemed to bend, implode inwards with a snap and cracking. When Tony looked behind him, the waiting room was gone. The bulletin boards on the walls fell, crashed down and disappeared. The memories were being erased faster now.

The color of the wallpaper in Steve’s room seemed to melt. 

“I didn’t even know what to say to you, then,” Tony said to Steve as he sat down in the chair next to the bed. “I had no idea.”

“I think you told me how selfish I was being,” Steve said. He looked so small, so battered. They were giving him a transfusion. He would be sick for days afterwards.

“I did,” Tony said. “I told you that you were selfish to try and take yourself away from me.”

“Did I have an answer?”

“No. You just . . . cried.”

“Did it ever occur to you that you were the selfish one?”

“Not at the time,” Tony admitted. “But now . . . Well. I was always the selfish one, wasn’t I?”

“Yes.”

Steve turned his head away from Tony.

“I should have said that I was sorry you felt this way,” Tony said, rubbing his eyes. “I should have told you that I loved you and I was only ever selfish because I was scared you would leave me.”

“You’re telling me now.” Steve’s voice was muffled.

“But it’s not real now. It’s not real. They’re erasing you.”

“I’m sorry,” Steve choked.

“You said that. You said that when this happened. Why were you sorry?”

“I don’t know.”

Tony took Steve’s hand gently. “I have to get them to stop this.”

“Why?”

“Because I love you. And I can’t . . .”

Steve looked up at Tony, and chuckled through his tears. “You can’t even admit that you can’t live without me in a dream?”

“I guess not.”

Tony left then, like he had actually done that time. He wanted to stay, now. He wanted to stay with Steve until they kicked him out, but he couldn’t. He was only repeating the past. He went into the hallway, through a glass lined corridor, and split his knuckles punching the plate glass. That, he had actually done. On the second punch, he fell through the glass. He didn’t want this, not anymore. 

He screamed as he fell, landed ass first in the middle of a hiking trail. Steve was laughing at him, hauling him up.

“Hit a muddy spot?” Steve asked.

“Steve, they’re trying to erase you,” Tony said, pulling himself to his feet.

“What are you talking about?” 

“There are people, in my house, right now. Trying to get rid if you.”

“But we’re hiking,” Steve said, confused.

“We’re not hiking, this is a memory,” Tony said. “I wanted to have you erased, but not anymore.”

“Why would you do that?” Steve asked, his voice laced with hurt.

“You did it first,” Tony said.

“I did?”

“You most certainly did. It seemed like it was a split decision for you.”

Steve sat down on a rock at the edge of the trail. “That doesn’t sound like me.”

“You kissed someone in front of me,” Tony insisted. “Some guy named Phil. I think he’s here now.”

“Wow.” Steve blinked. “I’m sorry. Isn’t there some way you can stop it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Try and wake up,” Steve suggested. Tony sat next to him. “Maybe if you wake up, you can stop it.”

“I don’t think so,” Tony said.

“Just try,” Steve said, grabbing Tony’s hand. “Just to see what happens.”

Tony slid down onto the ground and held his eyes open with his fingers. He blinked once, and when he opened his eyes, he was staring up at his ceiling. There was a machine blinking. He could hear music playing and a girl laughing. Tony couldn’t say a word, couldn’t even move. Banner came into the room, stumbling, to check the machine, but just as quickly, Tony was back in the memory.

“I was awake for a second,” Tony said.

“Did it work?” Steve asked.

“No,” Tony said, shaking his head. “I couldn’t say anything.”

“So . . .” Steve rubbed his hands together. “Can you try and go backwards?”

“They’re already gone.”

“Try. Try to remember something from before.”

Tony concentrated, trying to bring back anything. He was back in the doctor’s office. There was sand on the ground. He could hear waves. Doctor Blake’s face was distorted, but he was saying, “Sufficed to say that Mister Rogers was . . . not happy.” His voice sounded like it was coming off a scratched record. Tony was holding the postcard from Clint and Natasha. Steve’s name disappeared from it with a sizzling sound. Banner was reading letters. Natasha was picking a sock off her lap in the corner of the doctor’s office.

Somewhere, faintly, Tony heard a beeping noise.

~

“Oh, _shit_ ,” Bruce said. “Shit, shit, shit.”

“What?” Jane asked, coming into the bedroom. Suddenly she was panicked that Phil had left. If something was going on, she wasn’t very helpful. She just answered the phones. Phil wrote the code for the programming.

“He’s back into memories we already erased,” Bruce said, tapping furiously at the keyboard. “Fuck, I am way too drunk for this . . .”

“What’s going on?” Jane asked. 

“We’re getting light ups in areas that were already erased,” Bruce said, panicked. “Look, look! He’s back to the earliest stuff, this all should be gone by now.”

“What do we do?” Jane asked.

“Put your pants back on,” Bruce said, running his fingers through his hair. “Make some coffee, sober up. I might have to call Donald in for this.”

“Oh, fuck,” Jane said, running out into the living room. “I don’t want him to see me like this. I don’t . . . oh fuck.” She hopped into her jeans and went into the kitchen. She fiddled with the fancy coffee maker. “Fuck, fuck.”

Bruce was fumbling with his phone, trying to dial Blake’s number and trying and re-erase the memories on the map. 

Blake’s wife picked up, groggy and grumpy. “Hello?” she said.

“Hi, Mrs. Blake,” Bruce said. “Is Donald there?”

“Hmm,” she sighed. “Yeah, hold on.”

Blake answered the phone, sounding much more understanding than a midnight phone call deserved. “Banner, my friend! What’s going on?”

“Well, you know, I’m working the Stark case right now.”

“Yes, I know. Is everything alright?”

“Well. No. He’s back into memories we already erased.”

The line was silent for a moment. “Are you certain they were already erased?”

“Oh yeah. They’re some of the first ones. I mean, they lit up like a Christmas tree. He’s back in them, somehow.”

Blake cleared his throat. “Well. _Well_. I can come out and try to sort this. Hang tight.”

Bruce hung up the phone. Jane came in with two mugs of coffee. “Is he coming?” she squeaked.

“Yeah, just,” Bruce rubbed his face. “Just be cool, okay?”

While Bruce tried to do some damage control, Jane chewed nervously on her fingernails, jittery, almost sober from nerves. It only took Doctor Blake fifteen minutes to get there, but in the meantime, almost every other previously erased memory was lighting up. When the doorbell rang, Jane ran to get it.

“Miss Foster?” Blake asked, eyebrows raised. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, um. Phil had a personal emergency and . . . um. Bruce-Doctor Banner, I mean, called me over to assist. I figured . . . uh, I know I’m not a tech, but something’s better than nothing, right?”

“It’s all right, Miss Foster, I’m not angry,” Blake chuckled. “Show me the way, if you please.”

Jane took Blake up the stair and into the bedroom.

“Well, this is highly unusual,” Blake said. 

“They’re all lit up. Every single one of them,” Bruce said, pointing to the map. “I can’t figure out a way to reset the programming. It’s still trying to delete in the same sequence. Phil knows the code better than I do, but . . .”

“It’s fine,” Blake said. Bruce got up and let him sit down. “It’s a few simple lines, but perhaps I should start writing them down, hmm?” He tapped at the keyboard, humming to himself as he added several extra lines of code. “There we go. This should restart the sequence from the beginning.”

The map of Mister Stark’s memories went dim in the right spots, but slower this time. 

“I’ll stay for a bit,” Blake said. “Just to make sure it doesn’t happen again. Do I smell coffee?”

“Would you like a cup, Doctor?” Jane asked.

“That would be lovely, Miss Foster, thank you.”

Blake settled back, watching the blinking map. This had never happened before. A ball of worry knotted in his stomach.

~

“Shit,” Tony said.

He was sitting in the wreckage of the Benz. This was the car crash fight. He hadn’t been paying attention, trying to light a cigarette while he yelled, and he drove right off the road into a telephone pole. His neck hurt. Steve was still on the phone, over the Bluetooth connection in Tony’s car. 

“What the fuck?” Steve screamed, his voice shrill through the speakers.

“Steve, calm down,” Tony said. “I don’t care about the fight right now, they erased all the stuff I tried to take back.”

“What?”

“Remember, they’re erasing you?”

“Oh. Yeah.” There was silence on the line. Tony heard sirens heading towards him. “Can’t you hide me somewhere?”

“Hide you?” Tony asked. He checked his reflection in the rearview mirror. He had a cut over his eye, like he remembered. “What do you mean, hide you?”

“Well, you can’t take me back to the stuff they already erased, right?” Steve said. 

“Right.”

“So take me somewhere they’re not looking.”

“That’s . . . actually brilliant.”

“You might be a genius,” Steve chuckled, “but you’re not the clever person alive.”

“Oh, hush. Sassy little shit, even in my head.” Tony adjusted the rearview and shook some of the airbag dust out of his hair. “Steve, babe?”

“Yes, Tony?”

“I wish you were here.”

Steve laughed. “I will be. Just take me somewhere unexpected.”

Tony closed his eyes. He thought about his first Spring Fling dance at college.

“You were handsome when you were young,” Steve whispered in his ear. Tony opened his eyes. They were in the dancehall the school had rented out. Tony was in his   
stupid suit with the bolo tie. Why did he think that was cool?

“I look like a moron,” Tony said, tugging on the tie. He looked over. Steve looked like he belonged in an episode of Miami Vice. “You don’t look much better.”

“I like this,” Steve said, tugging on the collarless button up. “It’s comfortable. There’s nothing choking me. Where are we?”

“The ‘89 Spring Fling at MIT,” Tony said.

“Your hair is very short,” Steve commented. “And there’s a gap in your teeth!”

“Shut your dirty mouth,” Tony said. He reached out, held onto Steve’s hand. “I got it fixed, later.”

“Did you have fun at this dance?” Steve asked.

“No. I puked. I hadn’t ever really mixed booze with drugs before.” Tony shrugged. “Someone spiked the punch.”

“Super 80’s college time,” Steve laughed.

“It was terrible.”

“Tony?” Steve asked.

“Yeah, babe?”

“I don’t feel so good.”

Tony realized he was holding onto nothing. The dance hall was falling apart, huge chunks of the ceiling caving in.

“Shit!” Tony yelled, trying to get out. “Shit, shit!”

~

“This is so strange,” Blake said, tapping the screen. “The neural signature the subject of erasure creates popped up off the map.”

“Did you take care of it?” Bruce asked.

“Yes. I had to manually erase the one off the map, though.” Blake turned. “I think it should be fine for now, though. I really should get home to my wife . . .”

No sooner had he started to get up than did the machine start beeping and blinking again.

Blake looked down. “Another one off the map,” he grumbled. “This is ridiculous.”

~

Steve and Tony were sitting on Steve’s couch. They had been together a year.

“I didn’t hide you well enough,” Tony said. 

“Well that sucks,” Steve said. “Isn’t this the argument about us getting married and adopting a baby?”

“We don’t have time to relive these arguments,” Tony said, rubbing his face. “We had so many, I can’t even keep up.”

“We _did_ argue a lot.”

“But it was because we loved each other!”

Steve smiled sadly. “Maybe it’s for the best.”

“God, even my _memory_ of you is trying to convince me to erase you!” Tony snapped. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, be quiet Steve!”

“Hide me somewhere else, then,” Steve said, twining his arm with Tony’s. “Hide me somewhere _really_ deep. Somewhere you don’t want to think about anymore.”

Tony tugged Steve under the ugly crochet blanket he kept on the couch and they crawled for miles until they tumbled out onto the floor of the apartment Tony had when he was in his early twenties.

“Tony?” Steve called.

Tony was only half-aware.

“Babe, what _is_ this?” Steve asked.

“Cocaine overdose,” Tony mumbled. 

Steve was next to him in an instant, cradling his head. “Fucking . . . _Christ_ , Tony. You told me you were bad but . . . You’re bleeding out your nose.”

“I know that,” Tony said, struggling for words. “It’s the first thing Rhodey is going to do when he comes in . . .”

“What’s that?” Steve asked.

Rhodey burst in through the door, looking absolutely ashen and more than a little pissed off. He caught sight of Tony and rushed over, wiping the blood off Tony’s lip with a handkerchief.

“Fuck, Tony!” Rhodey screamed. “You fucking moron!”

“Good to see you, too, Rhodes,” Tony said.

Rhodey was banging around, hollering, dialing 911. 

Steve leaned down and kissed Tony, blood and all. “I’m sorry, babe,” he said.

“It’s okay. I lived through this before,” Tony said.

“I’m sorry you’re reliving it now.”

“It’s worth it, okay? To keep you.”

Except that it wasn’t, because suddenly it didn’t exist, and Tony was in Steve’s apartment, smashing plates and dishes, throwing his pillows around. 

“God damn it,” he yelled as he dumped all of Steve’s shampoo down the drain. “I don’t have time for this!”

“It might be working,” Steve said as he suddenly appeared, perched on his closed toilet. “I wasn’t actually here when you wrecked my place.”

“It’s not!” Tony yelled, tossing all of Steve’s replacement razorblades out the window. He stalked into the bedroom, threw Steve’s clothes out of the dressers. “It’s not working, they just keep erasing you, wherever I take you!”

“One more try?” Steve asked. He was sitting on top of his dresser. “One more, okay? I really don’t want you to forget about me.”

“Steve,” Tony said, dropping to his knees. “It’s not going to work.” He put his head in his hands. Steve was there, next to him, wrapping his arms around him.

“Come on,” Steve said. “One more try, okay? Just one. Then we can admit that it was just. It’s not going to happen. And we can let each other go.”

“This is the last try,” Tony said. “Absolutely the last.”

It started raining in Steve’s apartment. “Hey,” Steve said. He put his hand out. “It’s raining.”

“It’s because it was raining the last time I saw my mom,” Tony said in a small voice.

Steve looks different every time Tony looked at him. Sometimes he was a little boy, and sometimes he was Steve. 

“You never told me how she died,” Steve said. They were outside, running through puddles to try and get home. It was just starting to get dark.

“She was going to pick up something for dinner,” Tony said. “She forgot dad was coming home that day.”

They came to Tony’s childhood home, went in through the front door. Tony tugged his shoes off. Steve sat down on the rug to do the same.

“Mom?” Tony called.

“There you are,” his mother said, coming out of the sitting room. “I was worried sick.”

“I was just with some friends,” Tony lied guiltily. 

“Sure,” his mother laughed. “Well, I have to go out for a bit, okay?”

“All right,” Tony said.

She came over to kiss him on the cheek. She was so pretty. Tony was a late in life surprise for her, but she still looked so young. There wasn’t a strand of grey in her black hair, only the barest of wrinkles on her face. She kissed his cheek and she smelled like Shalimar and Lucky Strikes. Tony tried to lean out of the kiss, but she got him anyway.

“Behave while I’m gone,” she said. “Your father should be home soon.”

“Okay,” Tony said, rubbing at the red lipstick stain on his cheek.

She went out the front door. Steve stared after her.

“It was wet, it was slippery. She was a nervous driver,” Tony explained. “She skidded right off the road, into a ditch. She went through the windshield.”

“I’m so sorry, Tony,” Steve said.

“I should’ve told you,” Tony said. He sat on the stairs of his childhood home. He started to cry. “I should have told you a lot of things.”

“It’s okay,” Steve says.

“It’s not, but . . . you were so good at telling me that.”

“I thought it would be.”

Tony wiped the tears off his face with the hem of his t-shirt. “Such an optimist. I’m sorry I nearly killed you.”

“I nearly killed myself,” Steve said, slinging his arm around Tony’s shoulders. “You didn’t help, of course. But everything is a two-way street.”

“Yeah, you’re right.”

The roof of the house falls in.

Tony’s not sure why he thought it would work the third time.

~

“I’m just going to stay, at this point,” Blake sighed. “Three anomalies! It’s my worst nightmare.”

Jane let out a nervous laugh. 

“Well, at least it’s set for now,” Bruce said. “Can I refresh your coffee?”

“If there’s some left, I would appreciate it.”

Bruce left the room. Jane looked at Doctor Blake, and her stupid crush reared it’s ugly head again. She bit back the longing, and looked at the screen.

~

“I couldn’t hide you,” Tony said to Steve as they lay in the bed in their motel room in Maine, fat and happy from too much lobster and crab. “I’m sorry.”

“You tried,” Steve laughed. They were watching a parade in the city. Steve was wearing the most hideous sweater Tony had ever seen. Tony was pretending to be an elephant. 

“I did,” Tony said, setting off fireworks for Steve’s birthday.

“It’s just not going to work,” Steve sighed as he picked a book off the shelf in Tony’s study. He looked so beautiful. 

“Just like us,” Tony said, his voice very, very small and sad. They were at Clint and Natasha’s wedding. Steve caught the bouquet. 

“We’re really close to the end,” Steve sighed as he nipped Tony’s neck while they made love for the first time.

“Just,” Tony said around the lump in his throat, holding tight to Steve, holding tight to that memory. He kissed the scars on Steve’s shoulder where the bullet had ripped through him. “Hold my hand until it’s over.”

“Of course,” Steve whispered in his ear. “Of course, Tony.”

“Say my name one more time?” Tony asked as the memory started slipping away.

Steve kissed Tony just below his ear. “Tony,” he said. “Tony.”


	4. Each Prayer Accepted, And Each Wish Resign'd

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Why don’t you stay this time?” Tony asked.
> 
> Steve kicked at the sand. “But I left,” he said. “None of this exists, technically.”
> 
> “Come back and make up a good bye, at least,” Tony called. The wall next to the staircase crumbled. It was cold. He breathed in the smell of salt air. “Let’s pretend we had one?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to hoard this until tomorrow but you're all being so nice to me I just want to smooch your faces and give it to you RIGHT NOW. I'm utterly blown away by the response I've gotten to this. You are all wonderful, and I really hope you like the ending. The finale is dedicated to Whippy, who is wonderful and without whom I never would have found the inspiration to write this! Enjoy, darlings.

The sun is just beginning to crest over the horizon as Tony pulls into the parking lot of Steve’s apartment complex. Steve fell asleep an hour ago, wrapped up in Tony’s coat. He looks exceptionally peaceful, so much so that Tony doesn’t want to wake him up. He reaches out, puts his hand on Steve’s cheek, and his eyes flutter open.

“Hey,” Tony says.

“Hi,” Steve says sleepily. 

“We’re at your apartment.”

“Oh,” Steve sighs. He looks at his apartment building, then over at Tony. The thought of staying in his bed alone suddenly sets his teeth on edge. Quietly, he asks, “Can I stay at your place?”

“Sure,” Tony replies. He smiles. He doesn’t admit that he was hoping for Steve to ask.

“Let me get my toothbrush,” Steve yawns. He opens the door. He casts one last long glance at Tony before he leaves the car.

~

Steve was at work. It was the first time Tony visited him there, trying to convince him to go out on a date. He got Steve to say yes, eventually. But it was work. Nothing worth it was ever easy, or at least that’s what Tony’s father said. Steve looked very good in his tight white t-shirt and workout pants. Tony leaned over the counter, pushing the guest check in book aside, grinning wickedly.

“You wouldn’t let up,” Steve said.

“No.” The entire scene seemed to shake, like it was on a bad projector. The color in the background melted away slowly until it was all just faded blobs in muted shades of grey. The people, working out and sparring, all faded away, until it was just Tony, leaning over the counter, and Steve with his hands in his pockets, looking reserved. Steve was the only thing that still had color. He seemed to shine; bright against the drab white walls. His eyes looked all the more blue. His hair looked like gold. 

“I don’t normally do this kind of thing,” Steve said.

“You didn’t want to take a chance on me,” Tony said.

Steve smiled. “Could you blame me? You smile like the Devil, like you’ve got something hidden up your sleeve. I could hear my mother’s voice in my ear, telling me to stay away from men like you.”

“Your mom’s not here,” Tony whispered.

“If I don’t agree to going out with you, you’re never going to leave me alone,” Steve said.

“No.”

“I’m not some piece of arm candy,” Steve snorted. “I’m not going to walk around and be some sort of toy for you. I’m a person, not a trophy.”

“I wouldn’t like you if you were that shallow.”

Steve smiled wistfully. “This is it, huh?”

“Yeah,” Tony said sadly. “Just a few left.”

Steve slid his hand across the counter to grab Tony’s. “Make them count, all right?”

“Okay,” Tony said, nodding. “Okay.”

Tony fell through the floor into the backseat of Natasha and Clint’s SUV. He was pleasantly drunk, tapping ash off his cigarette through the open window. Clint was driving and Natasha was beaming over the engagement ring Clint had surprised her with.

“I saw you talking to a _very_ handsome young man,” Natasha said.

“He was a hunk,” Clint said. “And I don’t even swing that way.”

“He was entirely too apple pie and white bread for my tastes,” Tony said in a bored tone, sucking at the filter of his cigarette.

“You are a horrible liar,” Natasha laughed. “You liked him. You wouldn’t have even spoken to him if you didn’t.”

“He was sweet,” Tony admitted. “Kind of quiet.”

“It’s those mystery boys that always drive you nuts,” Clint said. “I know you better than that.”

“Well,” Tony said. “That remains to be seen, doesn’t it?”

~

Doctor Blake sat in the living room, rubbing his eyes. Jane was cleaning the coffee mugs they had drank out of and putting them back in the cabinet she had found them in. The kitchen was sort of a mess, but there wasn’t much she could do to help it. Bruce stayed in the bedroom, making sure nothing else strange happened.

Jane went into the living room. Blake smiled at her. “It’s been quite a night,” he said. “I’ll be glad when it’s over.”

“And I was just here to watch,” she laughed. “It was a good learning experience.”

“If you wanted to train to be a tech, I could always find another receptionist,” Blake said. 

“No thanks,” she said. “I can barely work a laptop, let alone code programming.”

“Think about it.” Blake smiled warmly. “I would be more than willing to teach you. I have great faith in you, Miss Foster.”

“Please, call me Jane.”

“ _Jane_ ,” Blake said.

Jane smiled. 

“You’ve been working with us for quite some time,” Blake said.

“Just trying to make ends meet.” Jane shrugged.

“I appreciate the loyalty.”

“There’s a quote I heard that I thought you might like,” Jane said.

“Oh?”

“‘How happy is the blameless vestal’s lot, the world forgetting by the world forgot. Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind; each prayer accepted, each wish resign’d.’”

Blake had a look on his face like he had just heard a song that he liked. “Alexander Pope, yes?”

“Yes.” Jane nodded. “But I read it in a book full of quotes, so I’m afraid I’m a bit of a faker.”

“I do quite like it,” Blake said. “I thought about it often, when I was working out the specifics of memory erasing.”

“No wonder it reminded me of you,” she laughed. She put her hand on his knee.

“Jane . . .” Blake cleared his throat.

“I’m sorry,” she said, snatching her hand back. “I really am. I’ve just . . .” She shook her head. “You’re very handsome and understanding and I really appreciate your work.”

“Oh, Jane.” Blake rubbed his eyes. “I never meant for my kindness to be misunderstood . . . You’re a very beautiful young woman, and . . . well. I’m a married man.”

“I know that,” Jane said. “I know. I’m . . .” She laughed, rubbed her temples. Before she lost her nerve, she leaned in and kissed him. He was surprised at first, but after a moment he leaned into her.

A car horn outside honked, cutting through the silence. Blake pulled away, looked out the window.

“Oh, no,” he said.

“What?” Jane breathed.

“That’s my wife.”

He was up and running out the door. Jane followed, terrified.

“You forgot your cellphone, asshole,” Mrs. Blake yelled, throwing a phone out the window.

“Please, Maria, calm down,” Blake said.

“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Blake!” Jane said. 

“Yeah, of course you are,” she snarled, starting to drive away.

“Maria, please don’t cause a scene,” Blake said, following her.

“Really, Mrs. Blake, it was all my fault,” Jane yelled. “I’m just a stupid girl with a stupid crush, it was nothing!”

Mrs. Blake slammed on the breaks. She looked at Jane. “You don’t know?”

“Know what?” Jane asked.

Mrs. Blake looked up at her husband. “Oh, Donald,” she said. “Don’t be a monster. Tell the girl.”

“What?” Jane asked.

“Maria, I really wish you hadn’t . . .”

“Shut up,” she snapped. “I’m going home. Sort this out on your own.”

Mrs. Blake hit the gas hard enough to burn rubber. Jane stared up at Doctor Blake.

“What is she talking about?” Jane demanded.

Blake sighed. “Jane, I haven’t been very honest with you.”

~

This would be the last time Tony ever saw Steve, so he tried to hold onto the details. It was futile, he knew. They would all be gone soon. Everything about Steve would be forever erased from Tony’s mind. He thought bleakly that he should try to invent a way to make a backup of thoughts, but he probably wouldn’t remember that either.

He got out of Clint and Natasha’s car, stretched his legs. He didn’t really like Montauk. There was nothing to do, to see. Why Rhodey decided to throw his birthday party on the beach in the middle of autumn was absolutely beyond Tony. He tightened the scarf around his neck and lit a cigarette.

There was a man standing out on the edges of the circle of people grilling and drinking beers and pretending it wasn’t absolutely freezing.

“Rhodey, who’s the kid?” Tony asked, nudging his friend. Rhodey plunged his hand into a cooler.

“Who? Oh. Uh. I think he’s Barnes’ friend. Steve something or other.”

“Army brat?”

“Yeah,” Rhodey said. “He’s shy. Don’t embarrass him.”

Tony didn’t know if he had embarrassed Steve that day. He hoped he hadn’t. 

Steve sat on the steps up to where all the houses were. Prime, beachfront real estate; the kind of place Tony’s father might have bought when he was alive. Steve had a plate of food in his lap, but he wasn’t eating it. Tony sat down next to him. He took a chicken wing off Steve’s plate.

“Do you mind if I borrow this?” he asked as he bit into it.

“You’re so charming,” Steve chuckled. “How could I not have fallen for this?”

“I’m a regular Romeo, aren’t I?” Tony licked barbeque sauce off his fingers. “I’m Tony Stark. Are you a friend of Rhodey?”

“Steve Rogers.” Steve chewed on his knuckle. “I’m a friend of a friend.”

“There’s no going back, huh?” Tony sighed.

“No,” Steve said. “There isn’t. Are you going to miss me?”

“I won’t know you,” Tony said, dumping the chicken bone back on Steve’s plate. “How can I miss someone I don’t know?”

“I think I’d miss you even if we never met,” Steve said.

“That’s from a movie,” Tony snorted.

Steve shrugged. “This is _your_ subconscious talking.”

“Oh, please don’t,” Tony sighed. “I’d much rather just pretend it was you.”

“But it’s not,” Steve whispered.

“Steve, please. Just. Be quiet, okay?”

Steve laughed as the sky darkened. It was later, but not much later. Tony tugged Steve along the boardwalk. “Come on,” he said. “This is my favorite house on the point.” The house had lace curtains and it creaked and groaned as Tony opened a window.

“Is this your house?” Steve called. Tony climbed into the house through the open window.

“No, of course not,” Tony said. He went and opened the front door. “But we can always pretend.” 

“This isn’t a good idea,” Steve said.

“Don’t be such a boy scout,” Tony laughed. He snatched a piece of mail off of a table in the foyer. “Tonight we’re David and Ruth Laskin. Which one do you want to be?” Tony tossed the letter back on the table. “I’d prefer to be David, but I’m flexible.”

The house started falling apart. Tony could hear it being ripped apart, like they were in the middle of a hurricane. Steve hung back as Tony rifled through the dining room, his feet slipping into the sand that appeared on the floor. He knocked open a cabinet. “Look at this wine collection!”

“I don’t know . . .” Steve said.

“Sweetheart, this house is empty for the entire winter. Rich, bored people come back in the summer. It’s all ours tonight.” Tony pulled out a bottle of wine and winked. “Come on. Come upstairs with me.”

There was sand on the stairs as Tony went up them. The ocean rushed in after him, chasing him. Steve hadn’t followed him.

“Babe?” Tony called. He could hear Steve splashing around in the water.

“Yeah?”

“Why didn’t you stay?” he asked, frozen at the top of the stairs.

“I guess I was scared,” Steve called back. “You’re big, and you’re bright. You’re like the sun, I’m like the moon. We can’t both shine at the same time.”

“You said that to me once,” Tony says. “You wrote it in a letter.”

“Would you look at that?” Steve laughed sadly. “You remembered.”

Tony looked up. The ceiling was cracking. He could see the sky through the cracks, see the pale moon and the clouds and the stars. “I wish you’d stayed.”

“I wish I’d stayed too.” Steve’s voice sounded strange, echoing through the house over the constant wash of the ocean. The walls made a horrible screeching noise. It was falling apart. “Now, I wish I’d stayed. But it’s too late for that, isn’t it?”

“You only ever ran away from me twice,” Tony said.

“You didn’t come after me either time.”

“I’m sorry,” Tony called.

Tony heard Steve slog through the water, heard the door open and slam shut. He leaned over the rail of the landing. The beach had reclaimed the first floor. There was no door. The window Tony had climbed through was gone. There wasn’t even a front wall. Steve was walking down the boardwalk through the salt grass.

“Steve?” Tony said.

“Yeah?” Steve called back, turning around. The collar of his peacoat was turned up, the wind mussing his hair. Tony wished fervently that he could always keep that image of Steve in his mind. _If I could just keep one thing_ , Tony thought. But it was stupid to hope for that. Everything must go.

“Why don’t you stay this time?” Tony asked.

Steve kicked at the sand. “But I left,” he said. “None of this exists, technically.”

“Come back and make up a good bye, at least,” Tony called. The wall next to the staircase crumbled. It was cold. He breathed in the smell of salt air. “Let’s pretend we had one?” The roof blows away in scraps until there’s nothing. Just the sky. The stars looked brighter than they probably were that night. There was even the Milky Way; gossamer candy floss stretched out over the clouds, weaving through the stars. It was beautiful.

Steve walked back up the boardwalk, up into the house that’s mostly beach now. Tony went down the stairs two at a time. He took Steve’s face into his hands.

“Goodbye, Tony,” Steve said, slipping his hands under the collar of Tony’s jacket. Tony shivered. He had loved it when Steve did that.

“Goodbye, Captain,” Tony whispered, pressing his forehead to Steve’s. “I love you.”

Steve pressed his lips to Tony’s quickly. He leaned forward, nuzzled his nose into Tony’s temple.

“Meet me in Montauk,” Steve whispered. He looked at Tony meaningfully. Tony wanted to drown in the blue of Steve’s eyes.

The house was gone.

Tony stood in the middle of beach, the ocean breaking over his shoes. He breathed in deeply, the ghost of a familiar cologne in his nose. He sat down in the water, buried his hands in the sand. He closed his eyes. The water rose higher and higher, until it was well over his head.

He woke up and immediately gagged, stale plasticy taste in his mouth.

~

Jane sat in the office, wiping tears off her face. She felt so stupid. She hit a button on the computer screen, replayed the recording session of her talking about Donald.

“When I first met Doctor Blake,” her voice said through the speakers, sounding thin and hollow, “I was immediately attracted to him. I-” She broke off, crying. “Oh, I can’t do this, Donald. I can’t.”

“Jane, it’s okay,” Blake said, soothing. “It’s for the best. You know that.”

She angrily punched the eject button on the computer and snatched the disk out of the tray. She snapped it in half. It wasn’t fair.

Jane shoved everything she needed into a box and went outside. Bruce was leaning against his car, nervously shoving his glasses up his nose.

“Did you know?” she asked.

“No,” Bruce said. “Well. I thought, maybe this one time. But I didn’t know for sure.”

“What time?”

“You were talking after work,” Bruce said, tilting his head back as he thought of it. “It seemed intimate, I guess.”

“What gave it away?”

“You both looked . . . happy.” Bruce shrugged. 

Jane looked at the box. “I’m sorry,” she said.

“There’s nothing to be sorry about.” He put his hand on her shoulder and kissed her forehead. “I just want you to be happy, after all.”

“Thank you,” she sighed. “I thought Doctor Blake was making people happy. I thought he was doing them a service. But . . . he’s really not, is he? Delaying and denying all this pain.”

Bruce shrugged. “Who knows. I'm not staying. Maybe I’ll go back to being an internist.”

Jane smiled. “It’ll be good for you.”

“What are you going to do?”

Jane took a deep breath. “I don’t know,” she said. “And that’s . . . really kind of great.”

Bruce smiled. “Go on. Get out of here.”

“You too, Doctor Banner.” Jane winked and got in her car.

~

Steve goes into his bathroom to grab his toothbrush. There are a bunch of voicemails blinking on his answering machine. He ignores it willfully, getting a sort of rush from not immediately checking. Tony is making him break all of his rules. All he wants to do is curl up with Tony, sleep the day away. He’s so glad the gym is closed. On the way back out to Tony’s car, he grabs his mail from the little boxes in the foyer. Tony is calmly smoking a cigarette as Steve gets back into the car.

“What’s that package?” Tony asks, nodding at the bubble-wrap lined envelope in Steve’s hands. 

“I’m not sure,” Steve says with a shrug. “I didn’t order anything.” He flips it over. “There’s no postage on it.”

Tony pulls out of the parking spot and starts driving towards his house while Steve wrestles with the packaging. There’s a note and a CD.

“This is weird,” Steve says.

“What’s it say?” Tony asks.

“Dear Mister Rogers,” Steve reads. “My name is Jane Foster. I am a former employee of Lacuna Industries. It has recently come to my attention that the outcome of our company’s services wasn’t always helpful. Whatever you’ve forgotten, I assure you that it is much better to try and live through these things. I’ve taken all of the records from the company and given them back. Here are your memories.”

“That’s fucking creepy,” Tony says. “Put the CD in.”

Steve pops the CD out of its plastic tray and sticks it in the player.

“This is Doctor Blake, recording testimony of Steve Rogers on the subject of Tony Stark,” a rumbling male voice says.

Tony looks over at Steve. “What is this?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” Steve says, looking genuinely confused. “Honestly.”

“Tell me a bit about Mister Stark?” the man says.

“He’s a selfish, grabby, overgrown manchild.” It’s undeniably Steve’s voice. “He just likes to collect pretty shiny things, and then he’s rough with them, but he doesn’t care. He can just buy another one. But he can’t just _buy_ another person. It’s ludicrous. He’s cruel, even when he tries to be kind. He’s a horrendous alcoholic. He's going to kill himself one of these days. It’s no way to live.”

Tony slams on the breaks. “What the fuck is this?” he demands. 

“I don’t know!” Steve says, throwing his hands in the air. “I don’t remember this conversation, I don’t know what any of this is!”

Steve’s voice keeps going. He talks about Tony staggering in drunk at two in the morning, smelling like sex and vomit; he talks about constantly feeling worthless when compared to long string of people and things Tony goes through like water.

“Is this some kind of sick fucking joke?” Tony yells.

“Tony, I-”

“Get out,” Tony says. “Get out of my car, and take this garbage with you.”

Steve jams his finger on the eject button and grabs the disc. He looks hurt, and he feels worse. He walks back to his apartment. Phil is waiting there. 

“Not now,” Steve says to him. He puts his hands on his face. “I am _begging you_ , not now.” 

“But, Steve,” Phil begins. He looks hurt, but Steve can’t even bring himself to care.

“I said _not now_!” Steve screams. He slams his apartment complex door closed behind him. He goes to his room, sticks the CD in his hand into his boombox. He fast forwards a little, through what he’d already heard in Tony’s car.

“Can you tell me where you met Tony?” the doctor asks.

“On Montauk,” Steve’s voice replies. Steve sits on his bed, fascinated. “We met on Montauk. It was Rhodey’s birthday party. Rhodey knows Bucky, through the military or something. Rhodey and Tony have been friends since college. Tony dragged me into a house, the one on the point with the lace curtains and the salt grass.”

Steve closes his eyes. He feels like he’s heard this story before.

Then again, if everything is to be believed, he supposes he lived it before.

~

Tony is fuming when he pulls into his driveway, but not angry enough to not notice a package sitting on his front step. The same kind of package Steve had. He reaches down. The handwriting on the envelope is the same. He swallows hard and lets himself inside. He leaves the door open, just the storm door closed to let the light in, and goes into the kitchen.

The same letter Steve had gotten is tucked into the envelope. Tony takes the CD out. It’s marked with his name and a date; only two days ago. There’s a cold feeling in the pit of his stomach. He pulls the mini entertainment system out from where it hides under a cabinet, pops the CD in.

Tony listens to himself talk about Steve. He is incredulous. He doesn’t remember a word of it. He digs in the envelope for more information. There is none. He pulls his phone out and searches for Lacuna Industries. It takes a little hunting, but he finds their website. They’re a company in the business of erasing memories. “Here are your memories,” Jane Foster had written. Tony is a little surprised it’s so literal.

He sits down at his kitchen table, head in his hands. Good God, had he . . . had he _erased_ Steve? Had they met before? Was this just . . . a repeat?

The storm door swings open and closed. Tony peers around the edge of the doorframe down at the foyer.

Steve stands there, guilt written on his face.

“It was open,” he says.

“I know,” Tony says. “Come in, come up.”

Steve climbs the stairs. Tony gets up to turn the CD off.

“No,” Steve says. “You heard mine.”

Tony sits back down at the table, lights a cigarette.

“I don’t know how Steve made it through the military,” Tony snorts on the recording. “He’s such a giant pussy, I’m shocked he doesn’t get his period.”

Tony looks mortified.

“I loved him, really, but he’s a walking mess. It’s a classic Sisyphean frustration. One thing goes wrong, I help him patch it up, he breaks again.”

Tony looks at Steve. “I don’t . . . I mean. I wouldn’t think that about you.”

“But you did,” Steve says. 

“Well, was yours any better?”

“I talked a lot about your drinking problem,” Steve admits. “Apparently you’re rather fond of the brand of vodka I found rolling around in my freezer and I was quite convinced you’d poison yourself soon.”

“That’s not so far off the mark,” Tony says with a shrug. “Can I stop this thing now?”

“Okay,” Steve says.

Tony gets up to stop the CD. He turns and leans against the counter, arms crossed. “So,” he says.

“So,” Steve repeats.

“What do we do from here?”

“What do you mean?” Steve asks. “Clearly, we tried this before. I mean, we tried and it was apparently a spectacular failure. I said on my recording that we were together for _two years_. We tried this for two years and we ended up wanting to erase each other.”

“We could . . .” Tony stubs his cigarette out. “We could always try again.”

Steve snorts. “Tony, come on. Two years? What do you think will happen this time?”

“I don’t know,” Tony says. “We’re starting on a totally clean slate.”

“I’ll tell you what’ll happen,” Steve says, an edge to his voice. “You’ll drink and it’ll drive me insane. I’ll end up hating you for being cruel. You’ll end up hating me for being hurt all the time. It’ll never end.”

Tony regards Steve’s points, and decides to ignore them. “So?” he says with a shrug.

“So? _So_?!” Steve rubs his forehead. “Are you insane? Apparently we were terrible together!”

“Yes. Apparently you were whiny and I was an asshole.” Tony shrugs again. “So what?”

“Tony.”

“Really. So fucking what? We’re two fucked up people. Who says we can’t just carry on being fucked up with each other forever?”

Steve stares at Tony, nose wrinkling. “You really think we can do that?”

“Yeah,” Tony says, nodding. “Definitely.”

Steve starts laughing. “I’m sorry, I just . . .”

“So it’s okay?” Tony asks.

“Yeah,” Steve says, still laughing. “Okay.”

Tony starts laughing too. “Okay.”

_Okay_.

 

fin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ONCE AGAIN I just wanted to say thank you to everyone for reading and giving me feedback. Maybe I'll actually start writing and posting more often. You can visit my tumblr and leave requests if you like, as the problem with writing for me is often "What should I even write ABOUT?"


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